The Sum of its Parts
by roqueclasique
Summary: They say that once you leave, you can never go back. Features brotherly grumping/grinning/groaning/glaring, and of course, an unhealthy amount of hurt!Dean. PART SIX OF THE DRIVE 'VERSE.
1. Chapter 1

One of the first lessons you learn when you're a younger brother is how to ignore the older one. How to ignore being called a dumbass three times a day, how to ignore fists ground incessantly onto the top of your head, ignore ludicrous orders like Climb up to the roof and fix the antennae, bitch, ignore the smelly socks in your lunchbox along with your plastic-wrapped turkey sandwich (which, incidentally, your brother packed for you, along with a juice box and an apple – but you ignore that, too).

So as a younger brother, Sam's had some practice ignoring Dean, and he's been exercising his considerable skills steadily for the past couple weeks or so, ever since they left Oregon. He's been tuning out Dean's snapped comments about Sam's incompetence, his curt replies to the most innocuous of questions, his long, heavy silences that Sam can physically feel, like a pressure in the air around him. Ignores it cause he's knows it's not his fault, and it's not Dean's fault, either.

They've been taking it easy, more or less, because Sam's ribs are still bothering him, and Dean – well, Dean's been a huge asshole lately, but not because he's an asshole – though, yeah, that too – but because he's clearly in a lot of pain. Too much pain. And it's making him cranky as hell, and Sam's the one who gets the brunt of it.

They take an easy salt-and-burn in Idaho, and Dean yells at Sam for using too much rocksalt on the bones.

"That shit is fucking expensive," he barks, and doesn't speak to Sam again until they get dinner, where Dean makes a steady stream of snide comments about how much salt Sam puts on his fries. Sam wants to say, at least I'm eating, because sometimes it seems like the only things Dean puts in his mouth are cigarettes, coffee, and painkillers. But he's too busy trying not to get yelled at to do anything more than make sure there's a steady supply of healthy-ish snack food in the car, because Dean will absentmindedly eat nuts and M&Ms and sometimes potato chips if they're on hand, and it's not ideal, but at least it's food.

In Montana they perform the simplest exorcisms known to man – an outbreak of sleep demons, who nestle inside their skin of choice and just sleep. The people they possess don't wake up till it's all over, and then they just yawn, stretch, mutter about weird dreams, and ask Sam and Dean what they hell they're doing in their house.

That night, Dean needs help getting up the three stairs into the diner where they have dinner, and when Sam slams the Impala's door a little too hard he tells Sam he's "a fucking waste of good space that could be used for someone with half a brain" and expresses his wish that Sam "shove his eyes full of razorblades and fall over backwards onto a shit-covered stake" – which is pretty harsh, even for Dean, who has the good sense to look mollified and gives Sam first shower.

They're doing easy work, but it's still work, involves trekking out to graveyards and shoveling and holding people down… Sam guesses they probably move around more than the average person, but it's not excessive, and he's trying to be careful not to overdo it.

Nevertheless, Sam's noticed things, noticed that Dean stays in bed as long as he can in the mornings, doesn't shower as much 'cause it means standing up for so long, needs more help doing simple things like getting out of the car. Most of all, he's hitting the Vicodin pretty fucking hard whenever he thinks Sam's not looking, and as a consequence is always either too mellow and too zoned out, like a zombie, or he's tension-wire tense and prickly, shoulders clenched against pain he won't admit to.

And besides being a huge jerk, he just seems off, never really smiling, not eating, shows no interest in anything but the hunt: and even with that, it's a flat, dull interest, like he thinks he ought to be interested but he's really just feigning it.

And Sam's good at ignoring his brother, but this, he can't ignore anymore. Doesn't want to.

The last straw comes the day after they take care of a small-scale haunting where Dean gets bounced against the wall a little, nothing major, but it is, and he barely makes it back to the Impala even with Sam's steadying arm holding him up. Sam knows it's not going to be pretty the next morning, and he's right.

He goes out for coffee before his brother wakes up, and comes back to find Dean sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers and t-shirt, staring at a pair of jeans on his lap like they may as well be Mount Everest, white knuckles clenched in the denim.

He looks up when Sam comes in, circles painted dark under his eyes, and Sam sets the coffee down carefully on the nightstand and sits on the bed across from his brother, knee to knee.

"Dude," Sam says. "We gotta talk about this."

"What?" Dean snaps, grabs his coffee.

"I think that we should go to a doctor," Sam says resolutely. "Just to check you out, man. See if there's anything they can do."

"The fuck are you talking about," Dean mutters, reaches for his cane to get himself to his feet, angles his leg to minimize movement of his hip – but the bed is low, and soft, and Dean's already got sweat misting on his upper lip, and Sam sees the realization in his face that he's not going to be able to make it all the way.

"This," Sam says gently, watching his brother try and settle himself on the bed, pretend like he had just been adjusting position. "This is what I'm talking about."

Dean shakes his head once, like he's going to deny it, but all of a sudden his face just… crumples. He raises an abrupt hand to press down hard over his eyes, visors them from view, and Sam has absolutely no idea what to do, just sits there mutely and listens to his brother's ragged breathing, watches Dean try and get himself under control, because he's trying not to cry and Sam can't remember the last time he saw that. If he's ever seen it.

"Hey," he says helplessly, lump rising in his throat like he might cry himself, "hey."

Dean keeps his head down, and Sam knows Dean's probably cursing him right now, wishing to god he'd just get the fuck out, but tough luck, cause Sam's not going anywhere.

"Hey," Sam says, leaning forward, puts his hand palm-down on the bed next to his brother's good knee, "I know man, I know it's hard, but we just need to go to a doctor, maybe they can put you on some different meds. Suggest something, like exercises or …"

"There's nothing," Dean says, and his voice is steady even though he won't look at his brother. "They're just gonna… there's nothing they can do."

"How do you know until you try?"

"I know."

"Dean," Sam says, pure frustration. "What's worse, sitting here trying to figure out how you're gonna put on your pants, how you're gonna get up and get through the fucking day, or going to one doctor's appointment, have them poke and prod you for a measly hour, then maybe do something to help? So you don't have to sit here like this?"

"Sam," Dean says, and drops his hand. "I've been to doctors. I spent four fucking months with them. They didn't do shit."

"They did, too," Sam says. "You were fine until that spirit at Claire's. Okay, not fine, but you were getting around a hell of a lot better than you are now. And you were a thousand times better than when I had first picked you up at Bobby's. You don't know how much better. You couldn't drive at all, remember? Took you twenty minutes to get up a staircase. And now I feel like you're back there again, cause I'm sure it hurt before Claire's, but not like this, man, not like this – I can tell. So it's clear that something's changed since you last went to a doctor."

Dean shakes his head. "Not goin'."

"Why?" Sam demands. "You afraid they're gonna do something good for you, and you won't have an excuse to be a total jackass anymore?"

"Fuck you. Seriously. Fuck you."

"Why? Why won't you go?" Sam knows he's yelling, but he can't help it. "What's scaring you? What are you afraid of? What the fuck are you so afraid of, Dean?"

"I'm afraid of being stuck in a goddamn wheelchair for the rest of my fucking life!" Dean shouts back. "Fuck, Sam, I don't want any more fucking surgery, don't want them to tell me to stay in bed all day and not move and not breathe and not talk and fuck, it's just gonna be bad news, and maybe I don't want to know."

"Dean," Sam says. "Dean. Could it be worse than this?"

"There's things worse than pain," Dean says grimly, and Sam throws his hands up in the air.

"Fine," he says. "Fine, you fucking drama queen. Just – just quit bein' such a douchebag. You yell at me all the time, and I fucking hate it. If you wanna hurt yourself, that's your business, but don't make me suffer, too."

"Fine," Dean says.

"Fine."

They sit in silence for a moment, Sam fuming and Dean just looking exhausted.

"You hungry?" Sam asks, and he can't help that it sounds like a threat.

"No."

"You need to eat," Sam says menacingly, and Dean is silent.

Great. Don't throw me any frickin' bones here. They sit, Dean staring at the ground, Sam staring at Dean, waiting for him to talk, cause, yeah, his fucking move.

"What I need," Dean says finally, "is a cigarette. I really, really need a cigarette. And I need to get these fucking jeans on. And I need this fucking vicodin to kick in, now, because I want to kill something, I swear to god, I wanna kill something, and you're always the closest target and I'm sorry, I'm sorry I've been a dick."

"Oh," Sam says taken aback. "It's all right. Dude, I'm just worried about you."

Dean pulls in a shaky breath, lets it out.

"I'm gonna get some water, go to the bathroom, wash up," Sam says. "Then we'll get breakfast, cause you really do have to eat something, you do, you can't just smoke your meals."

"Fine."

Sam heads into the bathroom, closes the door, leans on the sink and stares at himself in the mirror. He looks almost as bad as Dean, tired, lines furrowing his forehead, his skin dry and pale.

Jesus motherfucking christ. He's sick of this shit. This constant worry about his brother, always watching Dean and wondering how Dean's doing, if he's all right, if he's in pain, if he needs to sit down or take his meds or have a cup of coffee, if his hands are shaking cause he needs a cigarette or if it's cause he's nervous or cause his leg hurts, if he's coughing cause he swallowed something wrong or cause he's got emphysema, if he's grimacing because of a bad joke or did Sam jostle his chair too hard, Dean Dean Dean Dean Dean all the fucking time and Sam is fucking sick of it.

Sam's got problems too, fuck, does he have problems. His girlfriend is dead and his whole life is torn to shreds, burned on a ceiling, everything he wanted lost and everything he didn't want shoved back into his hands like an anvil that he's trying desperately not to drop. He doesn't need his worries and all his brother's worries at the same time. It's just too much.

He takes a deep, steadying breath, and goddammit, even now he's wondering how Dean's doing out there, if he's managed to get himself to his feet, get his jeans on, if he's outside smoking a cigarette or still sitting on the motel bed staring at his hands.

And all the fight goes out of him, just like that, because Dean has spent his whole life worrying about Sam, still worries about Sam, even when he's being an asshole. And maybe this is just how it is. Carrying each other's burdens, cause no one else is gonna fucking do it for them, that's for damn sure.

Sam rinses his face, drinks from the faucet, one hand bracing his still-twingeing ribs, and heads back out into the motel room.

Dean's still sitting on the bed, but his jeans are on and he's buttoning up a red shirt over his grey tee, face pale, breath coming a little faster than usual, like getting those jeans on had been a mile-run.

"Breakfast?" Sam asks.

"Okay," Dean says. Adjusts himself on the bed a little, winces. "And… also okay about the other thing."

"What? Okay about what?"

"The doctor thing."

Sam feels his mouth drop. "You'll go?"

"Yeah," Dean says.

"Good," Sam says, can't help but beam. "Good!"

Dean nods, doesn't look at him, finishes buttoning his shirt.

Sam moves to put his jacket on and thinks that he will never, never, never understand how his brother's brain works. Shouting one minute, quiet and docile the next. Maybe Dean just needs to yell about something before he agrees to it; maybe getting angry is the only way he can think through anything. Christ.

Dean reaches for his crutches, fiddles with them for a moment before starting to push himself to his feet, breath coming too quick as he tries to maneuver himself upright, Sam trying not to hover but failing. His cane's been hanging out in the back of the Impala ever since Oregon, and neither of them have mentioned it, but it's just one more thing that Sam's been keeping an eye on.

Dean shakes a cigarette from his pack as soon as he's settled in the car, pats his pockets for his lighter.

"Can we stop at the gas station before breakfast? This is my last cigarette."

"The diner's right down the road," Sam says. "Let's just go afterwards."

"Can't we just go now?"

"I'm starving, dude."

"So fucking starve," Dean snaps, then seems to check himself, shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're right. I'm an ass."

"It's okay."

The diner is crowded, noisy, and Sam winces a little. He's been getting headaches lately, especially after particularly bad nightmares, like the one last night. This one was different than normal, wasn't The One About Jess, but it was no less disturbing. A woman, banging on a window, screaming, and god, it was so real, he can feel the vise around his head tighten just thinking about it.

The waitress sits them in a booth close to the door, and Sam watches Dean watch through the window as a pretty young woman lights a cigarette by a snowbank outside.

Dean shifts in his seat, clears his throat.

"You lookin' at the girl, or the cigarette?" Sam asks, and Dean attempts a grin.

"Both."

"So, I'll call your records, get them forwarded to the clinic here," Sam says, down to business. "Make an appointment as soon as possible."

"I can do it," Dean says in mild irritation.

Sam nods, doesn't want to say But you won't, but, "But you won't."

Dean quirks a smile. "Fine. You do it."

"I will," Sam says, pulls a notebook out from his pocket to make an exaggerated note of it.

"Christ," Dean says. "Gimme those newspapers, will you?"

Sam digs slowly into his laptop bag, next to him on the booth, hands Dean the papers they've been looking through for new cases, but he doesn't take out his computer.

"Dean," Sam says, and tries, for the fourth time that week: "Maybe we should take a break. Hang out for a while. Rest."

"A break?" Dean says, sweeping his hand over the newspapers, already littered with red pen and scribbled notes. "Look at this shit, Sam. I don't see evil taking any breaks."

"Yeah, well, evil can walk."

"Not evil worms," Dean says.

"Are you comparing yourself to an evil worm?"

Dean's spared from answering as a waitress sweeps over to their table. "How're you guys doing this morning?"

"We're doing all right," Dean says, smiles up at her, and it's a testament to how much time they spend together that Sam can pinpoint the exact moment that Dean's painkillers kick in. "How are you?"

"Can't complain," she says, tugging a pencil out from behind her ear. "Well, I could, but that's what therapy's for, right?"

Sam and Dean laugh with her, awkwardly, and she says, "What can I get you this morning?"

"I'll have the blueberry shortstack with a side of fruit and a side of bacon, please," Sam says. "And a cup of coffee."

"And for you?" the waitress asks, turns to Dean.

"Just toast and coffee, thanks."

The waitress nods, makes a note, swishes away again.

"You better put a fuck-ton of butter on that toast," Sam says. "Seriously, man, you need to eat more. I know you're proud of your cheekbones, but this is going beyond."

"I'm just not hungry," Dean says defensively. "I had a huge dinner last night."

"No, you didn't. You ate half a can of Chef Boyardee."

"Well, whatever."

Sam makes a mental note to ask the doctor about this, too.

Dean drums on the tabletop a little, and Sam's suddenly reminded of his nightmare, of the woman banging on the glass, the terrified expression on her face. A welcome reprieve from The One About Jess, but disturbing, nonetheless.

He flips his notebook open to where it says Call Doctor Have Records Transferred, starts doodling idly, pen taking his hand. Usually he doodles faces, sad-eyed big-nosed faces, but now he finds himself sketching a tree, going over the thin lines until the outline's thick and crisp. He finishes and without thinking, starts another one, finds himself drawing the same thing. He thinks it might have been part of his dream, but he can't quite remember.

"That's kinda cool," Dean says, watching. "What is that?"

"I don't know," Sam says, furrows his brow. "Looks kind of familiar, though, doesn't it?"

Dean shrugs, glances back out the window.

The rest of their breakfast is quiet, Dean dunking his toast in coffee till it's practically liquid itself, like maybe chewing is too much work. He gets down three of the four pieces of toast and four cups of coffee as Sam finishes his shortstack and heads to the counter to pay.

Sam comes back, tucking his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans, finds Dean sitting on the edge of the booth with his legs in the aisle, one hand planted on the table.

"Uh," Dean says, shamefaced, and Sam gets a hand under his elbow, pulls him to his feet, reaches down and snags his crutches as Dean leans against the table, glancing around nervously like any moment someone is going to pop out of the woodwork and deliver a musical rendition of "You Big Fucking Pussy, Can't You Do it Yourself?"

They stop at the gas station and Sam goes in to buy Dean his cigarettes, which makes him feel like he's been corrupted, somehow, so he only buys one pack instead of the requested two, to show that he doesn't approve.

"Fuck you," Dean says, thumping the pack viciously against his palm, tearing the cellophane off and shoving a cigarette in his mouth in a violent motion that has Sam pressing himself against the drivers seat, just in case. "The fuck do you think you are, a walking talking pack of nicorette gum?"

"You have to cut back," Sam says, like he says every day.

"Yeah, well, I haven't yet, so I'm gonna need another pack of cigarettes at around," he checks his watch, "five o'clock today, and you're gonna go out and get them."

"I am not," Sam says, but at four o'clock Dean throws the empty pack at him and threatens to take the Impala and go himself, despite the fact that it takes him three tries to get up off the bed and start for the keys on the dresser. So Sam goes, buys the goddamn cigarettes, takes a long fucking time to do it cause he's not a servant, for chrissakes, chucks them at Dean's head and nearly gets him in the eye. Serves him goddamn right.

Dean's got an appointment at the local hospital for eleven the next morning, and they just kind of laze around the motel all day, nothing to do but bicker, so they don't talk much. Sam half-heartedly cleans the guns and flips through daytime T.V., while Dean parks himself in the armchair next to the open window, chain-smokes steadily and stares out into the parking lot. Sam tries bitching about the cold air, but it isn't very satisfying, so he shuts up and disables the fire alarm instead.

"You realize this makes you an enabler, right?" Dean asks, but he closes the window and makes his way over to the bed, grunts his way into a comfortable position.

"Disabler," Sam says, holding up the plastic pieces of the alarm, and that gets a grin from his brother.

Sam orders a pizza and is pleased to see that Dean eats three slices of meatlovers extracheese, though it takes him awhile and he doesn't seem to really enjoy it.  
Sam polishes off the rest of the pizza and starts working through a six-pack of beer, and before he knows it, he's on his way to drunk, more or less by accident – which, come to think of it, has been happening kind of a lot, lately. Dean drinks one beer slowly, which is probably a good thing, because he's pretty much doped to the gills already, speech a little slurred, half-smile hovering behind his cigarette.

"We havin' a party?" he asks as Sam pulls out the Jack.

Sam shrugs heavily. "May's well."

"Yeah? Didn't know we had anything to celebrate."

Sam just eyes him balefully and pours himself a drink, retreats to the table and pretends to do research, really just looks halfheartedly at a couple porn sites Dean's bookmarked, and then spends an inordinate amount of time on the Stanford website, trawling through the different departments, checking out the syllabi of the classes he would have been taking. Doesn't know why he's doing this to himself but doesn't stop.

They go to sleep early, Dean knocked out from the heavy load of painkillers he's been dosing himself with all day, Sam knocked out cause he's stressed, drunk, and unhappy, really just wants to be unconscious for awhile.

But he doesn't find any peace in his dreams, only a woman's terrified face, palms beating at the glass of her bedroom window, the scent of smoke on the breeze, fear filling his whole body like a white-hot electrical charge till he wakes up, gasping for air.

"You okay?" Dean asks, flipping on the light and looking at Sam with a bleary grimace, not really awake.

"Yeah," Sam says, holds a hand to his chest, heart thumping through his body like it's trying to break free of his aching ribs. "Go back to sleep."

Dean complies, changes position with a strange, whimpered groan, and is asleep again in minutes.

Sam lies back down, stares up into the dark, doesn't want to close his eyes again, doesn't want to get back there, but he's so tired…

The last thing he thinks before he falls asleep is, Oh. That tree.

To be continued…


	2. Chapter 2

Sam wakes up to the blare of the alarm, feeling like there's something he ought to remember, but he can't quite put his finger on it.

He stumbles into the bathroom, pisses for what feels like twenty minutes, brushes his teeth, tries to get the mossy feeling off the back of his tongue. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little hungover.

Dean is coming awake when Sam gets back out into the room, blinking his eyes open slowly, trying to get his bearings before he risks any movement.

"Morning," Sam says. "Doctor's appointment in an hour and a half."

Dean runs a hand over his face, doesn't answer, just gets himself up on his elbows and pulls his body into an almost-sitting position against the headboard of the bed. He gropes for the Vicodin on the night table next to him, swallows a few with a swig of the lukewarm water sitting next to them.

"How you feelin'?" Sam asks, even though he knows, he _knows _he's just gonna get a glare for his troubles, because it's clear that Dean really isn't feeling too hot. But he has to ask. It's like some sort of bizarre obsessive-compulsive thing. _How are you? Are you okay? Leg buggin' you? Hip hurt? How you doin'?_

"Fine," Dean says, and Sam wonders if he asked less if maybe Dean would give him a straight answer now and again. Probably not.

"You feel up to going out for breakfast, or you want me to bring something back?"

"Can you give me a minute here?" Dean demands. "I'm barely even awake yet."

"Right," Sam says, backing off, though _goddammit _he's sick of being yelled at.

Dean pushes himself up a little more with a slow exhale of breath, reaches for his cigarettes, frowns at the two left in the pack.

Sam pulls a t-shirt out of his duffle and gives it an exploratory sniff before exchanging it for the one he's got on. He wiggles out of his pajamas and into his jeans as quickly as he can, because Christ, it's _cold, _hopping up and down on one leg and then the other, bouncing on the balls of his feet to keep warm. He's zipping his fly when he catches Dean watching, a strange expression on his face.

He almost says, _What?, _almost makes some stupid joke, but Dean looks away quickly, pulls in a breath of smoke and ashes into his empty water glass, and Sam realizes that the look he saw was _envy._ Envy for how easily Sam does something that takes Dean twenty minutes, these days. Sam swallows, leans down slowly to put on his boots, hopes to god that the doctors can do something, because _fuck. _

"Guess if I'm gonna get poked 'n prodded, I should probably take a shower, huh?" Dean says, taking a last drag of his cigarette and sliding his legs out from under the blankets. "It's been a while."

"I doubt they care, dude," Sam says, because this place doesn't have handicapped facilities and the shower is in an old tub, slippery, nothing to hold onto.

"Matter of pride," Dean says, breathes deep and gets himself up onto his crutches, starts moving towards the bathroom. "Why don't you get us something to eat," he says over his shoulder. "And buy me a couple packs of cigarettes."

Sam hesitates, doesn't want to tell Dean that _no way _is he leaving while Dean's alone in the shower, because even he knows he'll sound like an overprotective psycho, but seriously, what if he slipped and fell and busted his head open and died while Sam was ordering French freakin' toast?

"I want an omelet with some kind of dead animal," Dean says. "And cheese."

Well, okay. There's a start. Dean hasn't specifically shown an interest in food for a while.

"Toast?"

"Sure."

"Coffee?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"Right." Sam tugs on a hoodie and a jacket, pulls a hat down over his head and brushes the bangs out of his eyes. Stalls for time. "Uh, so I'll have my cellphone on."

"Great." Dean arches an eyebrow.

"I shouldn't be more than half an hour."

"I'll be sure to finish jerking off by then."

"Please, dude, imagery," Sam says, screws up his nose, puts a hand on the doorknob. "Uh." _Be careful. _"The shower can get kind of hot. You should watch out."

"Sam," Dean says, in his I-know-exactly-what-you're-thinking voice. "God's honest truth? You want some imagery? I'm probably just gonna soap up a towel and give myself a sponge bath. I saw that fuckin' tub, and, yeah, there's no way."

"Oh," Sam says, can't help his face from relaxing a little. "Okay."

"Not really," Dean says, and Sam doesn't get it until he's halfway out to the Impala.

He grimaces at the cold leather of the seat that knifes through his jeans, grimaces again at the overflowing ashtray that makes the whole place smell like a dying tobacco factory. This is the smell of his life – stale cigarettes, car exhaust, and underneath it all, blood. Smoke. And – sniff – is that maple syrup? Huh. Guess there have been kind of a lot of pancakes in this car.

He wrinkles his nose at the ashtray, decides fuck it, no way is he gonna be a part of Dean's bad habit anymore. He'll just pretend he forgot when he shows up empty handed.

His cell rings as he pulls out of the parking lot, and he flips it.

"Dude," Dean says on the other end. "Don't forget my cigarettes. Two packs."

And Sam wonders for a brief, terrified second, if maybe his brother really _can_ read his mind, cause, damn, _busted. _

He waits on a stool at the diner's counter, and it's an old-fashioned place, so he can see their breakfast being made, watches the cook crack a bunch of eggs into a bowl for Dean's omelet.

"Can you put extra cheese on that?" Sam calls. "Extra meat? Some vegetables? Like, tomato, something good for you?"

"Sure thing, honey," the cook says, and hmm, a little disturbing, cause the cook is six-foot five of beer belly and three-day stubble.

Sam stops at the gas station on the way back, buys _one _pack of cigarettes and, fuck it, a pack of top-strength nicorette, cause life might suck but he'd like to try to be optimistic about _something. _

Dean's dressed when he gets back, cleaning the guns, which is just a tad passive-aggressive, since Sam did it yesterday, but he doesn't comment.

"Food," Sam says, drops the styrofoam container in front of Dean, but his brother ignores it, scans Sam's hands.

"Cigarettes?"

"First you have to eat."

"You forgot. Oh my god, you—"

"I did _not _forget, so cool it. If I have to bribe you like a five year-old, I'm gonna bribe you like a five year-old. Remember when you'd let me shoot the gun if I finished all my vegetables? It's like that."

Dean grumbles disbelievingly, but it works – he eats most of his omelet and half the toast, takes a couple bites of Sam's pancakes, even, before Sam relents and gives him his cigarettes, and the nicorette.

"The hell is this, dude?" Dean asks, then reads the label, rolls his eyes.

"You need to cut back," Sam says, like a broken record, but _dammit, _he means it.

Dean looks at him for a long moment, fingers tightening around the pack of cigarettes, but, to Sam's amazement, he slowly puts it down and starts tearing open the gum.

"Seriously?" Sam says, jaw dropping.

Dean shrugs, looks a little surprised at himself. "Don't start waggin' your tail yet, sparky. Just wanna see what this is like." He pops a piece into his mouth. "Ugh. Ass, that's what."

"Can't be worse than a cigarette."

"Cigarettes taste like heaven," Dean says. "Now, please don't talk about them when I'm trying not to smoke."

"Hang on," Sam says, reading the pamphlet that came with the gum. "There are instructions. You have to chew it till you feel the tingle, then put it in your cheek or something till the tingle fades. Then repeat. Otherwise you're gonna get too much nicotine at once and you'll get sick."

Dean bugs his eyes out dramatically. "It's _gum. _You're givin' me instructions on how to chew _gum?_" But Sam can see that he follows the directions, tonguing the gum behind his teeth, making a face.

To his credit, he makes it through almost an hour, pops another couple pieces of gum halfway through even though the instructions – and Sam – warn him against it, lasts until they get into the car to go to the doctor, and Dean sees the full ashtray.

"Okay," Dean says, spits the wad of gum onto the pavement with a wet smack. "Done quitting."

"Did it work at all?" Sam asks.

"Yeah," Dean allows. "Maybe a little."

Sam can't help the triumphant way he puts the Impala into gear.

But Dean is nervous on the twenty-minute drive to the hospital, jumpy, undoes the good of the gum and smokes three cigarettes in a row, lighting one off the other without pausing for air.

As they pull into a handicapped parking space, Dean turns to Sam, and his face is a little pale, almost green. "I feel kind of nauseous," he says. "I think I overdosed on nicotine."

"Told you not to eat that second piece of gum. Then you went and smoked all those cigarettes."

"Christ," Dean says. "Maybe we shouldn't do this. I mean, not right now. Not if I'm gonna puke all over everyone."

"Get the fuck out of the car," Sam says wearily, unbuckling his seatbelt.

Dean gets himself out after one failed attempt, looks towards the looming brick building and puffs out a jittery breath, follows Sam slowly up the ramp and into the waiting room of the doctor they've been referred to.

Sam glances around at the other people slumped in the sickly-green faux-leather chairs; the miserable-looking goth teenager with his arm wrapped in a black sling and his mother patting his mohawk distractedly, the old woman with the walker in the parrot-patterned mumu, the middle-aged guy hanging onto a pair of crutches much like Dean's.

The secretary behind the desk is friendly but impersonal, shoots them a brief smile out from under over-plucked black eyebrows.

"Uh, Steve Howe," Dean says, and feels a flash of nausea that has nothing to do with his excessive nicotine consumption. He never thought he'd use that name again. His dad may be a jackass, but at least he set him up with some legitimate insurance. Dean still doesn't know where the money for surgery came from, but it hasn't bounced and it hasn't run out and for that, Dean will be eternally grateful.

"Why don't you have a seat and fill this out," the woman says, starts to hand him a clipboard but changes direction in mid-air, gives it to Sam instead. "Bring it right back up here when you're done. Can I see your insurance card?"

Dean gets through the logistics while Sam takes a seat with the clipboard, starts examining it until Dean comes over and eases himself into the chair next to him.

"Hey," Dean says, "that's mine."

Sam hands it over with a frown, peers over Dean's shoulder as he starts filling it out.

"You're gonna be honest on that thing, right?" Sam asks as Dean hesitates over the first question in the section titled PAIN: _Describe the pain on a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being no pain and 10 being the worst pain you can imagine._

"You're gonna get the fuck out of my hair and let me fill this out in peace, right?"

"Yeah," Sam says, flops back in his chair. "Sorry." He watches out of the corner of his eye, though, as Dean pencils a circle around the 7, then erases it and circles the 8 with a dark line, lightly sketches circles around the 7 and 9.

Sam stretches out next to his brother, crosses his hands in his lap, feels like a giant in these little waiting chairs. He pretends to scan a magazine, but keeps his eyes on the papers in his brother's hands, because dammit, Dean doesn't tell him anything, so if he's gotta be stealthy about it, he's gotta be stealthy about it. _Rate your difficulty in performing the following activities on a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being easiest and 10 being impossible._ 8 for getting up from a chair. 8 for getting out of the car. 7/8 for putting on pants. 8 for tying his shoes. 6 for going to the bathroom. Sam looks away.

"Lemme know when you're done and I'll bring it up to the desk," he says.

Dean grunts, but after a moment hands Sam the clipboard facedown. His name is called not five minutes after Sam turns it in to the indifferent secretary.

A nurse pushes open the double doors that lead to the examination rooms, checks a list, calls, "Steve? Steve Howe?"

"That's me," Dean says, and pushes himself to his feet, Sam behind him. "Dude," Dean says, give him a pained look. "You can't come in with me."

"Oh," Sam says. "Oh, right. I'll just. I'll just be out here, then."

"And I'll be in there," Dean says, swallows, and Sam can see a glint of fear in his brother's green eyes – maybe not fear, but apprehension, the desire to bolt, that trapped wild animal look that Dean gets sometimes.

"G'luck," Sam says, and Dean nods, turns, heads up to the compact, curly-headed nurse, who greets him with a warm smile and a flickering once-over.

Sam watches as he disappears through the doors, then cracks his knuckles, looks around for a magazine or something to do, but the only magazines are things like "Good Parenting" and "The Financial Times," which doesn't interest Sam too much.

He takes out his notebook, meaning to look at some Latin he's been trying to memorize, but he ends up sketching instead, that tree, same one from yesterday, same one from his dream, same one from –

And suddenly he remembers where he's seen it, and something clicks into place, something cold and frightening and the hackles raise on the back of his neck and he feels like the air has gone still, feels it so strongly that he glances around and cannot believe that the other people don't feel it also.

He stands, hesitates, palms his cellphone just in case Dean comes out for some reason and can't find him, then bolts to the car. He cracks open the trunk and begins pawing through his duffle, till finally he finds what he's looking for: a faded photograph of his family, pre-fire, in front of their old house, in Lawrence, Kansas. Behind them is a tree. The same tree he's been drawing for two days. The same tree waving in the back of his dream, behind the screaming woman, who is pounding her fists from inside a house, from inside the house he lived in for six months of his life and knows only from this one photograph.

He rocks back on his heels, stunned by the discovery, knowing full well what it means but not wanting to admit it to himself. But he has to. It's clear that they need to get to Lawrence.

He knows it's crazy, but he's ignored his dreams before, and look what happened. Whoever's living in their old house, they're in danger, and he knows it, and it might be tied up with the fucking demon that killed their mother, and Jess, and Sam'll be damned if he lets this one go.

But, fuck, he's the one who was pressing for a break over breakfast, and God, there's no way Dean can hunt in this condition. Just no way. He doesn't know what the doctor's going to say, but he's pretty sure it's not going to be "Go forth and do battle with the evil of the world."

He moves slowly back into the doctor's office, still clutching his sketch and the photograph, and sinks into a waiting room chair, willing Dean to hurry up and come the fuck out because they've got shit to _discuss. _Places to go. Work. Work to do.

Dean's fucking right. Evil doesn't take breaks. And neither can they.

***

Dean is sitting on the table in the doctor's office in his boxers and a paper robe, feeling like he might pass out. Any second now, here it comes – but he doesn't, stays conscious. He's waiting for the doctor, after the nurse practitioner – Wendy – has taken his blood pressure and checked his ears and, embarrassingly, helped him up onto the examination table, cranked the back so he could sit up without pain, found a cushion for his knee.

The door swings open, finally, just when he thinks he can't take the suspense anymore, and the doctor comes in, tall and stern-looking, mid-forties, graying hair pulled back in a tight bun.

"Steve," she says. "Hi. I'm Dr. O."

"Hey," Dean says, feels awkward as she comes forward to shake his hand. He smoothes his paper gown self-consciously.

"So," she says, glances at the clipboard in her hand. "Looks like you've been having some trouble with this hip, huh? More than usual, that is."

"Right," Dean says.

"I've been looking over your records, checking out some old x-rays," Dr. O continues, raises an eyebrow. "Ain't too pretty."

Dean sniffs a laugh. "No, it ain't," he agrees.

"Says here they've got you on a pretty steady diet of Vicodin ES, but judging by these questionnaires you've filled out, it doesn't look as if it's doing much good."

Dean shrugs, glances towards the door.

"Your brother tells me you've been knocked around a little, recently, and that he thinks it might have exacerbated your condition."

"Yeah."

"Okay," Dr. O says, places the clipboard on the table. "I'm just going to do a brief physical examination, and then we'll take some x-rays, have you do some exercises for us, how's that sound?"

"All right," Dean says, can't help but tense up as she comes towards him and reaches towards his head.

"Ease down," she says with another raised eyebrow. "Little on edge?"

"I don't like doctors," Dean blurts. "No offense."

"None taken," Doctor O says, cranking down the table so he can lie comfortably. "How's that? You all right?"

"I'm good," Dean says, balls up his fists.

"Okay," she says, "I'm just gonna pull this back and have a look at your hip, that all right?"

"Do your thing, doc."

She folds his robe over, tugs the hem of his boxers down a little. "What time of day is the pain the worst?" she asks, skims a palm over his hipbone.

"Uh, right when I wake up, I guess," Dean says. "And before I go to sleep."

"Does it keep you up at night?"

"Yeah."

"Is the pain worse when you move?"

"Yeah."

"Do you find that it's difficult to rise from a seated position?"

"Fuck, yeah. Sorry."

She nods, prods his hip gently with two fingers, and he lets out an involuntary gasp.

"That hurt?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'm going to have you roll over onto your side, can you do that for me?"

Dean grunts his way over on his good left side, puts a palm to the table for balance.

"Is that position painful?" Dr. O asks.

"I'm fine," Dean says. "Just, uh, how long do you need me to stay like this?"

"Not long," Dr. O says, presses down on the point of his hip.

"_Christ_," Dean spits, his eyes flying shut.

"Painful?"

"Uh, _yeah._"

She moves her hand down to his thigh, says "Does it hurt if I do this?", and Dean can't help but think of Claire, blurts a laugh even as he hisses in pain.

"What was _that _noise?" the doctor asks, smiles a little. "Are you ticklish?"

"No! No, I was just remembering something."

"I don't think I want to know," Dr. O says wryly, and Dean laughs again, until Dr. O performs the same motion against his thigh.

"_Yes_, yes it hurts," Dean says, grits his teeth. "I don't know if I can hold this position much longer."

"All right," Dr. O says, puts a hand under his shoulderblade to help him ease onto his back. "How's your knee been holding up?" she asks. "Saw those x-rays."

Knee? His hip's been screaming for attention for so long, he's almost forgotten about his fucking knee, but hey now, there it is again, joining the chorus. "Hurts, but not as bad."

"Scale of one to ten?"

" 'Bout a seven. _Fuck. _Eight, when you do that."

"About how often do you find yourself taking your pain medication?"

"Every few hours, or so, I guess. Every five hours?"

Dr. O looks at him skeptically.

"Every three hours?" he tries. "It really depends."

She nods. "And does it help?"

"Yeah. Don't really know what I'd do without it. It's great."

"But not great enough to control the pain."

He shrugs as best he can while lying flat on his back, shakes his head.

"Okay," Dr. O says, cranks his table back up. "I'm going to leave you here to get dressed, and then we'll go down to the testing rooms. I'll send Wendy in to get you."

"Okay," Dean says. "Hey, you know about how long this is gonna take?"

She purses her lips. "Shouldn't take more than an hour. Can you get off that table all right?"

"Yeah," he says. "Thanks."

She nods, slips out the door.

Dean gets himself down off the table, sinks into the chair that the Doctor just vacated, gets his cellphone out from his jacket pocket.

_B 1 hr or so. Go feed yr tapewrm or sumthn._

He grimaces his way into his jeans, rests for a moment before starting on his shoes. He should probably invest in something easier to put on than freakin' biker boots, but he's not really a loafers kinda guy.

His phone buzzes and he flips it open.

_Okay, call me when you're out. I think I'm just going to go to the café down the street. Everything all right in there?_

Sammy, always with the perfect punctuation, even in freakin' text messages. He texts back _Peachy, _pockets his phone.

He catches a sharp whiff of medicine all of a sudden, feels his stomach seize up. _Please, _he prays, to anyone, to no one, _please, just no surgery, no surgery, that's all I ask. No more fuckin' surgery._

Jesus, he needs a cigarette _bad_, wonders if Dr. O would consider letting him step outside before the tests start.

Suddenly he remembers something, dips his hand in his back pocket and feels his fingers clamp down on the pack of nicorette Sam bought him.

He pops a piece into his mouth just as Wendy comes back in, all smiles.

"Looks like we're going to the x-ray room!" she says, comes forward as he struggles to get up.

"I'm good," he says, gets himself to his feet, chomps down hard on the gum, wills nicotine into his bloodstream, comeonecomeonecomeon… He feels a tingle on his tongue and tucks the gum away by his back teeth. Okay. Really not gonna make up for the fact that he can't smoke a cigarette in this fucking office.

The tests and x-rays are pretty standard, and pretty fucking painful, and he remembers them from the hospital, suppresses the little shiver of panic that runs through him every time he thinks too hard about what they mean. What it means that he can't do most of the exercises they want him to do.

Finally, he's back in the doctor's office, perched awkwardly on the edge of the chair, watching as Dr. O opens a folder on her lap, licks a thumb and pages through the sheets of paper she's got there.

"All right, Steve," she says, slow and smooth, and Dean feels his heart clench in his chest. "It looks like certain parts of your leg are healing relatively well, given the givens. The fractured tibia has mended seamlessly, and your ankle retains almost full range of motion."

Dean nods, drums his fingers on his good knee. He knows all this. Just get to the bad part, lady.

"Your hip and knee, as I'm sure you are aware, have not fared nearly as well. It is likely that you will never regain full mobility in either joint, and painkillers will probably always be a necessity."

"Yeah," Dean says, "I know," digs out the pack of nicorette and slivers through the foil with his thumbnail, tries to keep cool.

"Right," she says. "We'll discuss your pain management options in a moment. But first," and she pulls out an x-ray, scoots her chair closer to show it to him, "we'll deal with the problem at hand. You, my friend, have a pretty severe case of Trochanteric Bursitis."

"In english, please?" Dean demands, knows he's not being too polite, but his heartrate has already spiked and he can practically feel the operating table beneath him.

"The bursa is a fluid-filled sac located here," she says, runs a finger over the x-ray. "Its job is to provide a barrier between your tendon and your bone, and when it becomes inflamed, it can be extraordinarily painful. And, given your pre-existing condition, for you it's no doubt excruciating."

"Okay," Dean says, drags a thumb across his mouth, chews ferociously on the gum.

"Generally speaking, bursitis can be treated with a regimen of anti-inflammatories and some ice. In your case, though –"

Jesus, here it comes. Dean takes a deep breath.

"—in your case, I'm also going to prescribe a week of bed rest."

Dean lets his breath out in a whoosh. "Bed rest?"

"For at least five days. You can get up to go to the bathroom, that sort of thing, but basically you ought to stay as still as possible. And continuous icing, alternated with heat packs."

Dean breaks into a smile, can't help himself. Bed rest, fuck, that _sucks, _but compared to what he thought he was gonna hear, it's like a miracle.

"Okay," he says, knows he looks like an idiot, grinning his head off. "And after five days of lying around and taking aspirin, it'll just going away?"

"It should," Dr. O nods, smiling like she can't help herself, though she clearly has no idea what she's smiling about. "Sometimes a cortisol shot is necessary, though it's a simple outpatient procedure. You'll need a check-up in a couple weeks to determine whether or not we'll take that step."

"All right," Dean says. "Awesome."

Dr. O nods. "Now let's discuss long-term options."

Dean feels his grin fade. "Long-term."

"Yes. You suffered a two-compound fracture of the hip socket, and usually when that happens, there is still some part of the joint that is attached to the pelvis, which is what the surgeon uses to begin rebuilding. However, in your case, the pelvis itself was pretty wrecked, and that connection didn't exist, so your surgeon had to reconstruct it from the bone fragments floating around in there."

"Right," Dean says, and just like that, his heart's banging against his chest again.

"It's a hard surgery at the best of times, and your damage was pretty extensive. So what's happened is the bone and cartilage didn't heal as smoothly as one may have hoped… it's quite literally much rougher than a normal hip joint, which creates sort of a grinding effect that wears down the bone and cartilage."

Dean winces.

"So what we need to be worried about is the slow deterioration of your hip joint, due to the inconsistencies in bone that I've mentioned. We're looking at a pretty serious risk for post-traumatic arthritis, somewhere along the line."

"And…"

"And, at some point, you're probably going to need a total hip replacement."

Dean blanches, leans back in his chair. "At some point."

"Yes. I'm merely warning you what's to come. You're still quite young, and active, and therefore I would not recommend that you get a THR at the moment. But in ten or fifteen years, maybe sooner, depending on how well you take care of yourself, I can almost promise you that it will be a necessity."

"Oh," Dean says, relaxes. That's forever away. He probably won't even live that long. "Well. Thanks for warning me."

"As for pain management," Dr. O continues, starts scribbling on a pad, "it's clear from the surveys you've filled out that Vicodin ES is not as effective it ought to be, Bursitis notwithstanding. So I'm going to change your prescription to Vicodin HP, which has a higher concentration of hydrocodene per millogram. Why don't you try that out for a while and see if you notice any improvement." She rips the piece of paper off and hands it to him.

"Thanks," Dean says.

"I'm also going to give you a prescription for Actiq, which will control what we call break-through pain – the pain that 'breaks through' the cover of your normal medication. Pain that may come with movement, or what is often referred to as end-of-dose failure; that is, the pain you feel when a dose of Vicodin is wearing off and you have yet to take another one. Actiq provides more immediate relief – kin to liquid morphine. It comes in the form of a lozenge on a stick, like a lollipop, that you can swab around your mouth in instances of break through pain. There will be instructions in the box."

"All right," Dean says, takes the second piece of paper she offers him. "That sounds great." Morphine. Morphine _works._

"It is a highly abused drug, and you need to be very careful with it, all right? Also, brush your teeth often, because they contain sugar."

"Got it."

"And you won't need a prescription for this, but you need to pick up some ibuprofin and take it for the week of bed rest. As well as ice-packs and heat packs, which you should use on a regular, alternated basis."

"All right."

"Do you live with your brother Ryan?"

Dean's startled, by the question as well as by the pansy-ass name Sam made up. "Uh, yeah."

"Do you think he can take off work to stay with your for five days, or would you like a list of in-home caregivers?"

"Ryan can stay," Dean says, horrified. "I don't need a caregiver."

"All right," Dr. O says, corner of her mouth quirking up for a moment before she settles into a more serious expression. "We just have a few more things to discuss."

"All right," Dean says slowly, not liking her tone.

"I spoke to Ryan on the phone for a while, yesterday. He seemed worried, tells me you haven't had much of an appetite, lately."

"Guess not."

"Why is that?"

Dean shrugs uncomfortably. "I don't know. Nothing tastes good. Eating just… makes me feel tired, I guess."

She nods a little. "How are your sleeping patterns?"

"Uh. Fine?"

"No trouble sleeping?"

"Maybe a little. Kind of hard to fall asleep, sometimes. Wake up early. I don't know."

"He says you seem as if you're uninterested in things that used to give you pleasure. Like food, for example."

"Why the hell did you talk to my brother about this?" Dean asks, suddenly annoyed, defensive, though he's not sure why.

She looks at him for a moment, then says, clicking her pen and beginning to write, "Steve, I'm going to put you on a mild-antidepressant. I think it will help with your recovery process."

"Hey," Dean says, "No, I'm fine. I really don't need anything like that. Can doctors even prescribe that stuff?"

She glances up at him. "I was a psychiatrist for years before I went back to school to study orthopedic medicine. And yes, doctors can prescribe this stuff." She hands over the prescription and he takes it automatically, puts it in his wallet with the others. He's not gonna fill it. He doesn't need that shit. He's fine.

"Steve," she says gently, watching his face. "How old are you, twenty-five?"

"Twenty-six."

"You're very young, and very active. This type of injury can be quite difficult for anyone at first, not just physically, but mentally. Perhaps even _more _difficult mentally. It's extraordinarily common for people in the early stages of a life-changing disability to have feelings of depression. But these feelings have a physiological effect, as well, can worsen your physical symptoms, which in turn will make you feel even worse. It's a vicious cycle. So you don't have to fill that prescription, but I highly recommend it."

"Okay," Dean says dismissively.

"If you do fill it, it may take some time for you to feel the effects. Up to a month, in some cases. And it's important that you monitor yourself, see how you're feeling. It may be that we need to adjust the medication, in which case you can get a referral to a psychiatrist."

Dean checks his watch, nods to the wall. "Okay."

"All right," she says, leaning back. "Wendy will come in to give you the instructions for your bed rest and pamphlets for the Actiq. Feel free to call if you have any questions, now or in the next couple of days, or if the pain gets worse or doesn't go away. You should plan on scheduling a follow-up in a couple weeks."

"Okay," Dean says. "Thanks very much."

"Take it easy," she says, fixes him with a stern glare. "You're young, but you're not invincible."

"No shit," he says, and she snorts a little.

"Good luck," and she closes the door behind her.

Dean barely has time to pull out his cell to text Sam when Wendy comes back in, smiling brightly.

"Let's talk about this bed rest stuff, huh?"

To be continued…


	3. Chapter 3

Dean's euphoria over his burwhatsititis dims somewhat as the implications of _bed rest _sink in.

Sam, when he was called into the office to discuss 'caregiving,' seemed far more worried than Dean himself, had taken the offered pamphlets from the nurse with a grave solemnity, face pale, asked a series of rapid-fire questions; _Can he get up to go to the bathroom, Does he need a wheelchair, Should he be stretching, Can he sit in the car for long periods of time, What if I need to go out for a while, What if aliens land and we need to run away…_

"Dude," Dean had tried to tell him, "all 'bed rest' means is that I should take it easy. I don't really have to be in_ bed_."

"Actually," the nurse had piped in, "you do. You need to stay flat as much as possible."

Dean, from where he sat in the chair looking up at them, had elbowed his brother in the thigh, hard, before he could ask any more questions. "Dude," he said, "can we just get out of here, please? I need a cigarette like you would not _believe_."

Sam had smiled weakly at the nurse, Wendy, shaken her hand and thanked her for all her help, while Dean gave her a full-wattage smile and sucked on the nicorette in his cheek. Bed rest, schmed rest. At least it wasn't surgery.

His optimism begins to waver, however, when Sam bars his way as he tries to get in the front seat of the Impala.

"Oh no," Sam says. "No." He jerks his thumb. "In the back."

"Sam," Dean starts, but his brother gets that look on his face, that constipated-stubborn-golden retriever look, and Dean sighs, arranges himself in the backseat with a few grunts and a well-placed curse, props his leg up across the length of it, duffle under his knee.

He mouths a cigarette from his pack, closes his eyes as he takes the first drag, as Sam starts the car.

"So, you told me so," Dean prompts after a moment's silence. "They didn't try to cut my leg off. Didn't try to slice me open again."

"Right," Sam says, lets out a sigh. "That's awesome, man." But he doesn't sound too happy. "We'll stop at the pharmacy so you can fill out your new prescriptions. Glad to see they've got you on some different meds – maybe these might actually _help._"

"Yeah," Dean says. "That doc was pretty pill-happy. But they gave me the good stuff, something like liquid morphine, she said. Should be fun; I'll let you try it."

Sam huffs a laugh, but Dean can tell that his heart isn't in it. "Can't believe you have to stay in bed for a week."

"Nah," Dean says, "they're just bein' melodramatic."

"No, they're _not, _Dean," Sam says. "We're not getting out of this one." Dean watches him in the rearview mirror, watches as he runs a tense hand through his hair, tightens his lips.

"Well, you don't actually have to stay with me," Dean says, trying to get to the bottom of Sam's nervous energy, figure out why he seems so upset. "Set me up with the remote control and some water, and you can do your own thing. There's a movie theater round the corner from the motel, and I saw a big fat library that should keep your nerdy little heart content 'til I'm back on my feet."

"Dude, come on," Sam says, "You know I don't mind staying with you. It's just… I don't know, it blows that we have to stay put for so long."

"No shit," Dean says glumly, flicks ash into his cupped palm. "But hey, you're the one who wanted a break. Not like we've got a hunt lined up or anything; newspapers have been pretty quiet."

"Right," Sam says, but his expression in the mirror is worried, tight.

When they pull into the pharmacy and Dean leans down to collect his crutches, Sam shoots him a withering glare.

"What part of _don't move _do you not understand?"

"Bed rest doesn't start till I'm in bed," Dean says, scoots forward to the edge of the seat with a grimace. "Besides, they won't fill these prescriptions for you if I'm not there. Help me up."

Sam purses his lips, but reaches down and hauls Dean out of the car. The poking and prodding and the exercises the doctor had him do are taking their toll, and the Vicodin from the morning is wearing off. He moves slowly after his brother, thanks god for handicapped parking spots.

Inside, Sam trots off the find ibuprofin and ice/heat packs, while Dean pulls the stack of prescriptions out of his wallet and slaps them down on the counter. The pharmacist shuffles through them, face blank, but Dean can't help but feel judged, like he needs to justify himself somehow.

"You should get the sugar-free versions of this Actiq stuff," the pharmacist says, raises his pudgy face finally to Dean. "This'll rot your teeth right out of your head."

"Jesus," Dean says, runs a tongue across his molars. "Okay."

"Be a few minutes," the pharmacist says. "You can have a seat over there, if you want."

Dean eyes the plastic waiting chairs longingly, but heads to the front of the store instead, buys a carton of cigarettes and, why not, six packs of sugarless nicorette gum. A week of lying around in bed probably isn't the best time to try and cut back on his smoking, but then again, he could probably go through three packs in a day if he's got nothing better to do, so maybe this'll temper him a little.

When he gets back, the pharmacist has two bottles lined up and a strange little package that says "Actiq welcome kit" in medical block print.

Wait a second, two bottles? His new vicodin, and… oh, yeah. Anti-depressants. He leans on the counter, picks up the bottle, reads the label. Lexapro. Sounds… corporate.

Sam comes up behind him as the pharmacist bags the Vicodin and the Actiq.

"What's that for?" he asks, nudging his chin at the bottle in Dean's hand. Dean drops it hastily into the white bag, hands over Steve Howe's insurance and credit card. This is gonna cost a _fortune – _but not for him_._

"Uh, improve bone density," Dean says.

"Oh," Sam says, and Dean does a double take.

"Dude, what _is_ that?"

"It's a body pillow," Sam says, hefting the giant brown puff higher on his hip, like he's carrying a massive, squishy toddler. "Says they're good for bed rest. We shoulda gotten you one of these ages ago."

"A body pillow," Dean repeats, shakes his head. "Thanks, I guess."

Sam smiles for a moment before his face settles back into worried. "We set here?"

"Yeah," Dean says, hands Sam the bag with his prescriptions and the cigarettes so he can get himself adjusted on his crutches, takes a couple deep breaths. His hip has started up a steady marching band of pain, with his knee trailing behind playing the high-hat. At least he knows that part of it is caused by whatever the hell he's got, and that it'll go away in a week. But right now it's fucking _killing _him.

"You all right?" Sam asks as Dean winces his way down the aisle and out into the parking lot.

" 'M fine," Dean says, waits for Sam to open the door to the backseat so he can ease himself inside. "Hey, pass that bag back here, huh?"

No time like the present to try out his new drugs. He takes out the pack of Actiq, tears it open and squints at the instructions.

"That's weird," Sam says, watching him in the rearview mirror. "What's that little stick?"

"It's like a painkiller lollipop, or something," Dean says, puts it in his mouth and swabs it around his cheek, twirls the stick like the instructions say. Sees too late that he can't smoke at the same time. _Dammit. _

"How's it taste?"

"Kinda grape-y."

Sam stops at a liquor store on the way back, comes back with a 30 rack of Pabst, shrugs when Dean raises his eyebrows. "It's a whole week, dude," Sam says, almost defensively, and Dean thinks that Sam's been drinking kind of a lot lately. Almost says something, until he realizes that his eyelids are half-mast and there are enough opoids in the car to get them tossed into jail for a long time, if they weren't legal.

They get to the motel about fifteen minutes later, lollipop still tucked in Dean's cheek, and Sam comes around to open the back door.

"Dean," Sam says when he doesn't move. "Dude, you okay?"

"Yeah," Dean says in wonder. "I'm _great._" And he is. For the first time in what seems like years, he feels almost no pain. He edges forward experimentally, and yeah, there's a twinge, but nothing like the bone-deep just-make-it-stop pain he's gotten used to.

"Grape thing working?" Sam asks, a little smile on the corner of his mouth.

"Guess so," Dean says, gets himself out of the car and leans back in for his crutches. Wow. Easy.

Once in the motel, he eases down onto the bed, lets Sam fuss with the pillows and the blankets, lazily takes the proffered icepack and settles it on his hip, tosses the used-up Actiq stick into the trashcan and looks slowly around for his cigarettes.

"Ibuprofen," Sam says, shakes out a couple and puts them into Dean's outstretched hand.

He swallows them with the glass of water Sam gives him, lights a cigarette as his brother crosses the room to get a beer, comes back to sit on the edge of Dean's bed.

"What is it, dude?" Dean asks, relaxing into the pool of opiates. "I know something's buggin' you." He aims a breath of smoke away from Sam as his brother taps nervously on the top of his beer, cracks it open and takes a swig. "You do realize it's like, one o'clock in the afternoon, right?" he adds. "Kinda early for that."

"I wouldn't talk," Sam snaps. "You're stoned out of your mind."

"Nuh-unh," Dean protests, takes a long drag. "'Sides, I need this shit."

"I know," Sam says, takes another gulp of his beer. "Sorry."

"S'wrong, Sam?" Dean asks, pushing himself up so he's sitting a little straighter. "Spit it out. Come on."

Sam takes a deep breath. "We gotta talk."

Uh-oh. "Okay. So talk."

"It's just… I have these nightmares," he starts, stops, shakes his head.

"Yes?" Dean prompts after a moment. "I've noticed."

"And…" Sam says, takes another sip of his beer, fiddles with the can in his hands. Turns to face his brother. "And sometimes they come true."

Dean coughs around a lungful of smoke. "Come again?"

"Look, Dean," Sam says, face twisted. "I dreamt about Jessica's death – for _days _before it happened."

"Sam," Dean says, alarmed by his brother's distress, "Sam, people have weird dreams, man. I'm sure it's just a coincidence."

"No," Sam says, "_No. _I dreamt about the blood dripping, her on the ceiling, the fire, everything, and I didn't do anything about it 'cause I didn't believe it. And now –" he pauses, gets up and goes towards the kitchenette table, where's he's dumped his duffle. "Now," he continues, "now I've been dreaming about this woman, man, a woman screaming for help and banging on the windows of this house, and I started drawing this tree –" he thrusts the sketch of the tree into his brother's hands "— and I thought, I know this tree, I _know _this tree, and so I looked and here it is."

He passes Dean a photograph Dean knows well, a photo taken just a few days before the fire, in front of their old house in Lawrence.

"I've been dreaming about our house," Sam says, "about that tree, about that woman screaming inside, and, I mean, that's where it all started, man, this has to mean something, right?"

"All right," Dean says, trying to shake his head out of the analgesic fog, "Just slow down, would you?"

"This woman's in danger," Sam says, "I just – I just know it. And this might be our chance – this might be thing that killed Mom, and Jess."

Dean drops his cigarette butt into the water glass with a sizzle, occupies himself with lighting another one so he doesn't have to answer right away. Sam drinks deep from the can, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"You're saying we need to go back to Lawrence," Dean says finally. "Is that what you're telling me?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "But – dude – with you in bed like this –"

"And you're telling me you've got the Shining," Dean says, still working through everything.

"Yeah," Sam says impatiently. "I don't know _what _to do, though, cause—"

"_And _you're tellin' me we have to go back to our old house, like, maybe go _in _it."

"I shouldn't have told you this while you were on painkillers," Sam mutters, rubs his temple.

"I'm always on painkillers," Dean says distractedly, running a hand over his mouth. _Fuck. _"Dude," he says, grasping at the one thing he knows for sure. "I really. Do not. Want to go back there."

"I know," Sam says. "But we… I really think we have to check this out."

Dean pulls smoke into his lungs and holds it for a moment. "I know we do."

"But _how_?" Sam asks, almost frantic. "Dude, you're supposed to stay in bed for at least five days. By then, it's gonna be too late."

"Well," Dean says. "I feel pretty good right now. Maybe I—"

"No," Sam says vehemently. "You're not gonna fuck this up, man, you're more than fucked up enough."

"Right," Dean says quietly, knocks ash into the water glass.

"Sorry," Sam says, face guilty, "sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," Dean says. "Listen, we're at least a two-day drive from Lawrence. I can get comfortable in the back seat, take my ibuprofen and shit, rest up. Then, we'll see when we get there."

"I feel like that might be our only option," Sam says miserably. "I'm sorry. But this thing might be – I mean –"

"I know," Dean says, reaches for his cigarettes again, thinks twice, goes for the nicorette. Sam finishes his beer, squeezes the can till it crumples in his hand.

"When should we leave?" Dean asks, chews hard.

"I don't know," Sam says, "I mean—"

"Now," Dean says. "We should probably leave now, huh."

"Yeah. Probably."

Sam checks out, steals the pillows from the motel room, props Dean up in the car along with his new body pillow, makes sure he's got everything he needs in hands reach.

"You comfortable, dude?" Sam asks, as Dean works the cap off the new Vicodin. That lollipop-thing is fast-acting, but he can already feel the pain creeping up over the horizon, needs something a little more long-lasting.

"I'm good," Dean says, takes his gum out of his mouth to swallow the meds down.

"Hey, I'm glad you're chewing that shit," Sam says, gives Dean a small smile.

Dean pauses and Sam realizes he was mid-reach towards his cigarettes. He can't help but laugh at the guilty expression on his brother's face.

"Well, I figure I'll alternate," Dean justifies. "Gum, cigarette, gum, cigarette."

"Sounds reasonable," Sam says. "You hungry? Wanna grab something before we go?"

"I'm good," Dean says, then, doesn't want to worry his brother, says, "Actually, I could go for a sandwich."

Sure enough, Sam's face brightens a little. "We'll swing by a drive through, then. You sure you're comfortable?"

"Yeah, Sam, I'm fine," Dean says.

"You gotta tell me if you need to stop, okay?"

"_Okay,_" Dean says, wondering when Sam picked up that older-brother tone of voice, when he himself picked up that whiny little-brother voice. He feels something stir uncomfortably in his chest and he says, "_You _gonna be okay, dude? We're staying over night somewhere, right?"

"If I need to, we'll stop," Sam says with a shrug. "But honestly, I'd kind of like to try and make this all in one trip."

"That's like, eighteen hours of driving."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

Dean shrugs, puts his cigarette between his lips and reaches down for where John's journal is sitting in his duffle, flips through a couple pages while Sam concentrates on finding a drive-through.

Back to Lawrence. Back_ home. _Jesus. He runs his hands over his Dad's bunched-up scrawl, suddenly misses his father so fiercely that he's rocked back by it, his eyes blinking closed, eyelashes suddenly damp. He swore, he _swore _to himself that he would never go back there, to where it started, to where his life ended and began at the same time.

Who the fuck would he be if he had stayed in Lawrence? Just some civilian, ignorant and stupid and soft and _safe_:a guy who didn't need a pharmacy's worth of painkillers just to keep him upright, a guy with a living mother and a father who wasn't a freakin' mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a coating of jackass, a guy with a brother who would have gone to college with his family's blessing, would come home on holidays, call them on the phone to complain about grades and professors, to talk about his girlfriend, who'd be alive. A brother who wouldn't, _fuck, _have freakin' nightmares about horrible, violent things that _come true, _apparently.

"You all right?" comes Sam's voice, and Dean opens his eyes, sees that his brother is eyeing him worriedly in the rearview mirror.

Dean works the cigarette to the corner of his mouth so he can talk around it, says, "Yeah," closes the journal but doesn't let it go, lays both palms across the top.

"Vicodin not working?"

"It's working fine," Dean says, breathes smoke for a second, then says, "Dude. You know this sucks out loud, right?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "I know."

To be continued…


	4. Chapter 4

Dean's asleep when they pull into Lawrence at around four o'clock the next afternoon, sixteen hours after leaving Montana. Sam cruises the streets, completely exhausted but wired on coffee and energy drinks, lets himself wonder for a few minutes what it would have been like to grow up.

He finds a motel that offers a reasonably-priced handicapped room, sneaks inside to pay and comes back to find his brother still snoring in the backseat. Whatever he's on has been pretty much knocking him out, and he doesn't wake up even when Sam reaches back and shakes his arm gently.

"Dean," Sam whispers, then, louder, "Dean!"

Dean's eyes fly open, whole body jolting wildly, and his face screws up in pain.

"Sorry, dude," Sam says, wincing. "We're here."

"We here?" Dean asks groggily, and Sam sighs.

"Yeah. We're in front of our motel."

"Oh," Dean says. "Cool."

Sam gets out of the car, goes around back to the trunk to grab his duffle and peruse the weaponry, then opens Dean's back door to help him out.

Dean's got one of those stick-things tucked in his cheek, empty package crumpled on his lap, so Sam is gentle as he helps ease his brother out of the car, glad that he finally has a visual indication for when the pain is really bad. He gets Dean propped up against the side so he can lean back in and grab his crutches and duffle; he'll come back for the other stuff once he's got Dean inside. His ribs still hurt enough that it's kind of a bitch to carry too much stuff.

The room isn't bad, spacious and bright, with a mini fridge and a microwave, and Dean disappears into the bathroom while Sam gets the rest of the stuff from the car, locks it up, empties the ashtray, which is _disgusting_. When he comes back, Dean is sitting on the edge of one of the chairs by the kitchenette table, flipping through a phonebook that he tosses aside as Sam comes in.

"Bed," Sam says, points.

"So," Dean says, grimaces as he tries to get to his feet, "so, what the fuck do we do now?"

Sam passes a hand through his hair. "I guess I'll go pay a visit to our old house."

"Alone?" Dean asks. "Dude, you—"

"You're not getting out of that bed, Dean," Sam says. "And this is easy stuff, just a friendly _How's it going, Seen any demons lurking in your kid's nurseries lately?_"

Dean laughs a little breathlessly, trying to get comfortable on the pillows. "Well, I don't wanna be _useless,_" he says. "Set me up with your laptop, I'll do some research."

"On _what?_" Sam asks. "You just wanna look at porn."

"Just gimme your laptop, asshole."

Sam smirks, but puts the laptop on the bed next to his brother, turns it on and plugs it in. Dean takes the painkiller stick out of his mouth and tosses it into the trashcan under the nighttable, shifts position, and Sam can tell from his easy movements that it's just kicked in.

"All right," Sam says. "What else do you need before I go? Water? I'll get some water. You hungry?"

"Water's good," Dean says. "Just, could you put my meds and that carton of cigarettes over here? And that freakin' gum. And gimme the remote control. And can you disable the fire alarm again?"

"Please," Sam says fervently. "Please tell me you're not going to just lie here and smoke."

"It's either you disable the fire alarm, or I get up and go outside every time I need a cigarette."

"Fuck you," Sam says halfheartedly, but he hauls a chair to the center of the room so he can reach the alarm on the ceiling.

"Dude," Dean says as Sam climbs down, rubbing his eyes. "You need to _sleep._ Now. Can't this wait till tomorrow?"

"No," Sam says. "I'll be all right. I'm gonna get some coffee on the way." He looks around. "You sure you're gonna be okay alone here? You could always just stay in the car while I go in."

"I'll be fine," Dean says. "I _can _get up, remember? I'm just not supposed to. So worse comes to worst, I can handle myself."

Sam looks at him for a moment.

"Sam," Dean says warningly.

"Okay, I'm leaving."

"So leave."

"I'm gone."

"Go."

Sam turns, puts a hand on the doorknob. "You got your gun?"

"And my knife. I'm _set, _dude."

"Cellphone charged?"

"Christ, get the fuck _out _of here!"

"Okay, okay," Sam says, gives the room one last once-over and shuts the door.

He finds the house without too much trouble, parks by the side and just stares at it for a while, pretending that he remembers it even though he knows he's just remembering the photograph. He wishes he didn't have to do this alone, wishes to god that Dean were here, though he knows this is a hell of a lot tougher on his brother than it is on him.

Dean, he knows, _remembers. _Dean's got one of the best memories Sam's met, and he's let some things slip to Sam, about the time before the accident, that lets Sam know that he remembers Mom, and the house, and what it was like to have a real life. Sam is jealous of these memories, but then again, he's _not, _because on a scale of 1 to 10, Dean's pretty fucked up, emotionally speaking – Sam likes to flatter himself that Dean's more fucked up than he is, and Sam thinks it's because he got a taste of normalcy, of real family, before everything exploded. Although, you know what? He's pretty fucked up, too.

He heads up the drive, knocks on the door. There's a few seconds where he hears vague scuffling, a voice, and then the door opens on a harried-looking pretty blonde woman.

Sam opens his mouth, swallows, tries to get himself under control, because the last time he saw this woman she was trapped behind glass, screaming in terror, and he was asleep.

She cocks her head at him. "Yes?"

"Hey," Sam says, starts to give her the spiel he'd planned in the car, but says instead, "Hey, my name is Sam Winchester. Uh, this is gonna sound weird, but I used to live here. And I was, you know, I was just driving by, and I was wondering if maybe I could come see the old place.

"Winchester," the woman says, a smile starting to her lips. "Yeah, that's so funny. You know, I think I found some of your photos the other night."

"No way," Sam says, shows his dimples, and the woman nods, steps aside.

"Come on in," she says. "My name's Jenny."

He follows her inside, to the kitchen, where there's a little girl, maybe about eight, doing homework at the kitchen table. There's a toddler in a playpen off to the sound, bouncing up and down, garbling something unintelligible.

Oh, wait. That's real words. Or, a word. Over and over.

"Juice! Juice! Juice! Juice!"

"That's Ritchie," Jenny says, following his gaze. "He's kind of a juice junkie." She heads over to the fridge, takes out a sippy cup and hands it to the kid, who latches on immediately, eyes big. He's pretty freakin' cute.

"And this is Sari," she says, puts her hand on the little girl's shoulder. "Sari, this is… Sam?"

Sam nods.

"He used to live here."

"Hi," the girl says, all curly haired and pudgy-faced. Not as cute.

"Hi, Sari."

"So, uh," Sam says, feels a little lost without his brother there. "So, you just moved in?"

"Yeah, from Wichita."

"For work, or…?"

"No, no… I just, uh… needed a fresh start, that's all." She laughs weakly, her eyes sad. "So, new town, new job – I mean, as soon as I find one. New house."

"New house," Sam repeats. "So, how you likin' it so far?"

Jenny grimaces. "Well, with all due respect to your childhood home – I mean, I'm sure you had lots of happy memories here… But this place has its issues."

"Oh, really? What do you mean?"

"Oh, it's just getting old. Like the wiring, you know? We've got flickering lights almost hourly."

"Bummer," Sam says, tries to look innocent. "Uh, anything else?"

"Yeah, the sink's backed up, there's rats in the basement who scratch all night, it's drafty, it's rickety, and – jesus, listen to me. I'm sorry. I don't mean to complain."

"No, it's fine," Sam says. "I understand."

The little girl raises her head, tugs her mother's shirt. "Mom?" her voice is quiet and Jenny kneels to hear her better.

"What's up, sweetie?"

"Ask him if _it _was here when he lived here."

"What, Sari?" Sam says immediately.

The girl looks at him, gives him this stare like she's sizing him up, seems to decide she likes what she sees.

"The thing in my closet."

"Oh, no, baby, there was nothing in their closets," Jenny says immediately, like she's used to this conversation. "Right, Sam?"

"Oh, right," Sam says. "I sure never saw anything." Yeah, cause I was six months old.

"She had this nightmare the other night," Jenny explains, fingers skimming over her daughters curls worriedly.

"I wasn't dreaming," Sari protests indignantly. "It came into my bedroom – and it was on _fire._"

***

Sam calls his brother as soon as he gets out of the house, his hands shaking slightly.

"Jesus," Dean says when Sam's related their conversation. "And that woman Jenny, that was the woman in your dreams?" His brother's voice is just a little slower than normal, words blurring together, meds at their peak.

"Yeah," Sam says. "And you hear what she was talking about? Scratching, flickering lights, the works."

"Dude," Dean says. "I'm just freaked out that your weirdo visions are comin' true."

"Well, forget about that for a minute," Sam says wildly. "The thing in the house, what the fuck is it? The demon that killed mom and Jess?"

"I dunno," Dean says. "Any sign of demonic activity?"

"Not that I saw. No sulfur smell. Like, maybe it came back? Or has it been here the whole time?"

"Maybe it's something else entirely. Sam, we just don't know yet."

"Well, those people, Jenny and those kids, they're in danger, man. We – we gotta get 'em out of the house."

"Yeah, we will."

"No, I mean, _now, _Dean." Sam has seen Jenny's face in his sleep, terrified behind glass, and now he's seen her in waking life, tired and a little sad and a good mother. He feels out of control, out of his depth.

"Sam," Dean says. "Calm down. We can't just rip her out of the house. Unless you got a story you think she's gonna believe?"

"Well," Sam says, bordering on hysteria. "What are we supposed to _do_?"

Dean is silent for a moment. "We gotta do what we'd do if this were any other job. We have to – to figure out what we're dealing with. I mean, we _know _what happened, so we've got the history covered…"

"Well, how much do we know? I mean, how much do you actually remember?"

"About that night, you mean?"

"Yeah."

Sam hears his brother light a cigarette, exhale. "Not much, dude. I remember, you know. The fire. The heat. Carrying you out the front door."

"You took me out?"

"Yeah, what, you never knew that?"

"No." Sam doesn't know why this hits him so hard, but it does, something expanding in his chest, can't tell if the feeling is good or painful.

"And, well, you know Dad's story as well as I do," Dean continues, oblivious. "Mom was… on the ceiling. No demon in sight."

Sam tries not to think about blond women on the ceiling, swallows hard. "So we know for sure it was a demon. I mean, there's no question?"

"There's always a question, dude," Dean drawls. "I mean, we're pretty freakin' sure. Or, Dad's pretty sure. And I'm sure if he's sure."

"Right," Sam says, bites back a snide comment.

"We should ask around," Dean says. "Talk to Dad's friends, neighbors, people who were there at the time. Just like any other job."

"Does this feel like any other job to you?" Sam asks.

Dean's quiet for a moment, then says, "I'll call the garage Dad used to own, see if anyone remembers anything, if they can give us some insight onto what might have happened, see if Dad talked about it at all."

Sam feels something funny in his stomach. "Dad owned a garage?"

Dean sighs, and Sam's glad he can't see his face. "Yeah. With some dude named Guenther. And I checked the phone book earlier, just out of curiosity – it's still there."

"Phonebook's all the way across the room," Sam says.

"I gotta pee anyway."

"All right, you call the garage. I'll pick up dinner. What do you want?"

"Whatever, dude, I'm not real—well, I don't know, how about Chinese?"

"You want Chinese?"

"Those dumpling things."

Sam shakes his head. "Fine. I'll be back soon."

"See you."

Dean flips his cell shut, stares at it for a moment, leans over to stub his cigarette out, reaches for his crutches and hauls himself slowly to his feet. That Actiq stuff is fucking amazing, and the new Vicodin's definitely more powerful than the last kind he was taking. He's pretty fucked up, though, had a little trouble talking on the phone, tongue tripping around his mouth.

It feels good to be, you know, not on a bed. He takes a piss, eyes the shower appreciatively. It's _plastered _in grab bars and there's a plastic bench built into the wall, which he doesn't see too often but is psyched when he does. He hasn't had a nice, easy shower in a long time.

He looks in the mirror, wishes he hadn't. His eyes are bloodshot, pupils just pinpricks in his irises, electric green contrasted against the red. He looks like a fucking junkie, cheekbones too prominent, dark circles under his eyes. He _does _need to eat more, christ, but the idea of food makes him nauseous, makes his throat burn.

He makes his way back into the room, empties the ashtray while he's up so Sam doesn't see how fuckin' much he's been smoking, grabs the phonebook and positions himself back on the bed, lights a cigarette, finds the number he needs.

Guenther's Garage. It's a name from his earliest memories, from when before he knew how to read but could recognize the patch on his father's blue workshirt, knew enough to match the name to the smell of motor oil and sweat that enveloped him when his dad swept him up into his arms when he came home. Sometimes it's hard to reconcile that Dad with the Dad gripping a shotgun, barking for push-ups.

Dean thinks sometimes that the reason Sam and Dad don't get along is because Dean _knows, _has always seen that memory of his father underneath the leather jacket and reek of gunpowder. Could always see it, could feel it when his father patched up his wounds, hands gentle, voice full of grief. Could see it when his Dad came home from a hunt when they were little, climbed in bed between them and stroked Sam's hair for hours, not knowing that Dean was awake, watching. But Sam never saw that, even when it was so obvious that Dean wanted to scream.

Dean gazes out through the gap between the curtains, can see only the cement of the parking lot. He doesn't _feel _like he's back in Kansas. It's hard to believe that Sam, just a few minutes ago, was walking around in their old house. God. He'd _love _to do that. And he'd fucking hate it.

He realizes his fists are balled up tight and he wills himself to relax.

_Jesus_, he's on enough painkillers to down a small mammal and _still _his shoulders are strained up around his shoulders. He doesn't even remember what it feels like to not be on drugs, to be completely clear-headed, and the thought makes his fists even tighter. Even when he hasn't taken the meds, or when he wakes up in the morning and they've worn off overnight, he's not clear-headed, because the fucking_ pain_ takes up all his concentration.

Fuck, how do people _do _this? Live their entire lives in a medicated daze, working their ass off just to get out of bed, to move from one room to the next, from one _day _to the next. How do they do it, how is _he _gonna do it? He _can't_, he can't do this, not forever – jesus, but it _is _forever, and he can't talk or run or shoot his way out of this one, this is just how it's gonna be _forever._

"Relax," he tells himself out loud when he realizes that his breath has started to hitch. "Fuckin' relax, Winchester. Jesus christ, _relax._"

He drops the cellphone, lights another cigarette and thumps his head rhythmically against the headboard until he's gotten himself under control. God, he's glad Sam isn't here.

He picks up his cellphone, runs his finger along the number for the garage, really plans on calling, really, really does, but something makes him skim through his contacts, hit the button for _Dad _before he can think about it too hard. It's the fuckin' painkillers, gotta be the drugs, cause _why _is he humiliating himself like this?

It rings once, and the voicemail picks up, of course, with the message he's heard a million times.

_This is John Winchester. If this is an emergency, call Bobby Singer at 866-907-4432. BEEP._

The sound of his father's voice renders Dean speechless for a moment, but then he takes a drag of his cigarette, clears his throat.

"Hey, Dad. Uh, it's Dean. Listen, I know I've left you messages before, and I don't know if you're even getting them. But me 'n Sam, we're in Lawrence, and there's something in our old house, and we dunno what the fuck it is, if it's the thing that killed mom, or whatever, or…" he pauses, moves the phone away from his mouth so he can take a shaky breath, forms his words more clearly in his mouth, trying to enunciate. "Uh, anyway. We could… I'm kinda out for the count on this one and… Sam could use your help… I mean, fuck, we could really fuckin' use your help. 'Cause what the fuck is going on here? If it's got something to do with mom, you should be here, you really should – and you should be here anyway, as a matter of fact, you should quit being such a goddamn coward and come _talk _to us, because I don't know what the fuck you're afraid of, Dad, but it shouldn't be _us. _'Cept maybe it should be, cause we're both kind of fuckin' pissed at you, but come _on,_ jesus, you're an asshole, you know that? This whole fuckin' mess is just getting—_BEEP._"

The phone cuts him off and a mechanical female voice explains that he's over the time limit and his message has been recorded and thank you.

Dean stares at the phone in his hand, laughs a little wildly, cause, oh my god, he just drug-dialed his father and delivered a _rant_. Fuck, what'd he even _say_?He half-wants to call back, apologize, make some excuse, but he has a feeling that would just turn into another addled accusation. Oh _fuck._

He takes a drag of his cigarette, too deep, too long, sends himself into a coughing fit that has tears spilling out over his lashes, tracking down his cheeks. He doesn't even know if it's the coughing that's doing it, but _fuck, _everything is just _fucked up, _he's lying on a bed in a shitty motel room, drugged to the gills, can't even get up, just smoked an entire goddamn pack of cigarettes in a little more than two hours, probably gonna die of lung cancer even before a freakin' monster gets to him, and would that really be so fucking bad? Can't be worse than _this, _can it?

Oh, jesus, was that a suicidal thought? Is he suicidal?

Maybe he _is _fuckin' depressed, or maybe it's just the Vicodin making him all emotional like this, and god, he's sick of feeling so _medicated _all the fucking time.

That's it, he decides, I'm not moving around for the next couple of days, so it's not like I'm gonna hurt myself – no more meds, not for a few days. Just, get a little clarity, take a few mental breaths of clean air.

He finishes his cigarette, tries to get himself under control, tries to feel his way back to sane. He's glad Sam isn't here to see this, but he wishes he'd hurry the fuck up and come back, because Sam grounds him, tethers him to reality. Alone in this motel room, he feels like he's floating, like maybe he doesn't really exist, but Sam reminds him that he does, and it's not as hard when Sam's around, seems more like real life instead of just someone else's fuckin' tragedy.

He dials the number for the garage, cause he may as well make himself fuckin' useful, moderates his voice as well as he can, rattles something off about the Winchester 1986 disappearance. He grits his teeth as the guy talks about crazy John Winchester, babbling about conspiracies and fires, grins when the guy calls his father a "stubborn bastard," bites his lip when the Guenther says, voice changing a little, "Ah, but he sure loved Mary. And he doted on those kids."

Dean tunes the guy out for the rest of it, cause he goes back to talking about how John went nutso, asks the requisite questions without really listening to the answers, but something the guy says grabs his attention and he says, "Palm reader? You got a name?"

"Yeah, I asked for the name, wanted to go ask about my past freakin' lives. No, I didn't get a _name_."

Dean hangs up, interest peaked, flips idly through the _Psychics _section of the phonebook, smirks over _The Mysterious Mister Fortinsky_, pauses over _Missouri Mosely, _mouths the name to himself. Missouri. Missouri. Why does that ring a bell?

And suddenly it clicks, and he flips to the front of his father's journal, stares at the first sentence.

_I went to Missouri and I learned the truth._

Dean stares, processing. He always thought his dad meant the state.

He hears a key rattle in the lock, and he sits up, wipes frantically at his eyes, hopes he doesn't look like the emo fuck that he is, and Sam comes in, bringing the salty scent of MSG with him. Dean's stomach churns. Why'd he say Chinese? Shoulda said subs or something.

"Hey," Sam says, deposits the bag of food on the table, shrugs out of his jacket. "How's the flat-on-your-back thing goin'?"

"Great," Dean says. _Awesome. _

"I'm so fucking tired," Sam says, flops onto Dean's bed next to the phonebook, bounces once and is completely still. Dean contemplates bitching at him to get off his shit, but after the hours alone, unmoving, it's nice to feel his brother's solid weight beside him. After a moment Sam says, "Find anything?"

"Sure did," Dean says, forcing a tone of cheerfulness, tells his brother about Missouri.

"A psychic?" Sam says, wrinkling his nose. "Dad went to see a freakin' psychic from a phonebook?"

Dean laughs. "Dude. With all this freaky dream stuff, we ever run low on money, I'm farmin' you out for sure." Yeah. Joke about it. Cause it's not the scariest fuckin' thing ever.

"I guess I'll go chat with Missouri tomorrow, then," Sam says, getting up from the bed with a groan, gets a beer out of the mini-fridge, hoists one at Dean.

Dean shakes his head. "Nah."

Sam cracks his, takes a sip, starts rustling through the bag of food. "You wanna use plates?"

"What's the point?" Dean says. "Just bring it all over here."

They sit on Dean's bed, chopsticks in hand, and Dean thinks he does a pretty good imitation of ingestion, moves food vigorously around in the cartons, takes small bites of lo mein that taste like clay in his mouth.

"Doctor say anything about this?" Sam asks casually, cross-legged on the end of the bed, spears a piece of chicken.

"About what?"

"About how you're like, not eating."

"Uh," Dean says, caught by surprise, thinks fast. "She says maybe it's the drugs."

"That's all?"

Dean shrugs, stuffs a chopstickful of noodles into his mouth to make a point, swallows with some difficulty.

"Cause, it's kind of freaking me out. I mean, you _love _food."

"Yeah," Dean says noncommittally.

"I looked it up," Sam continues, examines a piece of broccoli. "Sometimes loss of appetite is a symptom of depression, or anxiety problems."

"_Anxiety problems_?" Dean mimics, and Sam looks up, glares.

"Don't even try it, dude, you and me both know that I saw you have a panic attack so bad you passed out."

Dean gives up pretending to eat, sets the carton of lo mein down and reaches for his cigarettes, even though he _knows _he's gonna get shit about it.

Yup. Sam scowls, shakes his head. "Dude, you look like shit," he says bluntly. "You smoke too much and you don't eat, you're like an anorexic model, it's ridiculous."

"First you tell me I look like shit, then you tell me I look like a model? Make up your mind, Sammy."

Sam gets up, fetches another beer and comes back. "This really isn't too funny, Dean. Is it that you're not hungry? Or you think you're fat? Seriously, I'm just trying to understand."

"Dude," Dean says, exasperated. "It's just – I'm just not hungry." He rubs his throat a little. "I feel – I feel like I'm gagging, when I try to eat. It just, it doesn't taste good. I don't know how to explain it, man, I love food, you know I do. Maybe I'm coming down with something."

"Okay, well. Is there anything that you think you could eat? Like, something that you think _would_ taste good? I could go to the store. Soup, maybe?"

"I don't know," Dean says, feels crazy, out of control, under pressure, wants this conversation to end but doesn't know how to stop it. The Vicodin is wearing off already, and he remembers his promise to himself that he was gonna go drug-free for the duration of his bed-rest, but he forgot that there's a pretty good reason he takes his painkillers, and here it is, peeking it's ugly head through the window, dancing through his hip and up his knee.

"Sam," he says. "Please, I really don't want to talk about this, I can't talk about this right now, I just –" he stops, rubs his temples, and Sam's voice softens.

"Okay," he says.

"I hate this bed rest shit, I hate it," Dean says vehemently.

"I know you do," Sam says quietly. "I know."

Neither of them are really talking about bed rest.

Dean swallows around a lump in his throat, takes a drag of his cigarette.

There's quiet for a moment, and Sam says in a lighter tone, "So I saw this giant pile of butts out in the gutter. Kinda like someone had, I don't know, emptied an ashtray right outside our room. Weird, huh?"

"Hmmm," Dean says. "Think it's our kind of problem?"

"Yeah," Sam says, and his voice is serious again. "Think it is."

Dean looks away, taps ash into the clean ashtray.

Sam chews a water chestnut.

To be continued…


	5. Chapter 5

Dean wakes up the next morning to find Sam sitting hunched over his laptop at the table.

"Had the nightmare again," Sam says dully as soon as he sees that Dean is awake. "I called Jenny and hung up, just to make sure she was still, you know, alive. She was."

"Good," Dean says, can't say much more, 'cause _owwwww. _ Day 1 without painkillers, starting now. At least he doesn't have to get out of bed. Except, _fuck_, he's gotta pee. He manages to get himself upright, eases his legs over the side of the bed, breathes deep.

"Hey," Dean says, feels like it takes up all his energy just to talk. "Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Gimme a hand?"

Sam's by the bed in an instant, lets Dean set the pace, grips his elbow and doesn't hesitate when Dean puts all his weight on him, just takes it and raises him up. He's getting too fuckin' good at this.

"Think you can get to the bathroom all right?" Sam asks, handing him his crutches.

"Gimme a piggyback," Dean says, manages a smirk.

Sam rolls his eyes, goes back to the table and pretends not to watch as he makes his way across the room.

Dean grips the metal bar tight as he does his business, thanks god for the person who invented these freakin' things.

He heads straight back for the bed when he gets out, takes a deep breath and lowers himself down in rhythm with his exhale, like his physical therapists always recommended.

It'll get better. It's always bad in the mornings.

Sam tosses him an ice pack and he cracks it, lays it gingerly over his hip, lights a cigarette and aims a jet of smoke at the ceiling.

"I'm going to see Missouri after breakfast," Sam says, gets up, stretches. "God, I'm starving. There's a diner down the street. What do you want?"

Food _again_? Jesus. "Omelet. Coffee."

"What kind of omelet?"

"Whatever." Breathe in, breathe out.

"You want toast, too?"

"Mmm."

"Sausage, bacon?"

Dean nods.

"You okay?" Sam asks uncertainly.

"Jus' gimme a minute," Dean says. His brother's quiet for exactly fifteen seconds, then he says,

"You need some water for your meds?"

"Sam," Dean groans.

"Sorry, sorry."

Dean takes a drag, lets the smoke out through gritted teeth.

"I guess I'll go get breakfast," Sam says.

"Mm."

"You need something before I go out?"

"No."

"You need that Actiq stuff? It's right by your bed, you can reach it."

"Sam."

"Right, sorry."

Luckily, by the time Sam gets back, Dean feels marginally more like a person and less like roadkill, enough to notice that his brother's got dark circles under his eyes, looks completely exhausted.

"Dude," Dean says. "Maybe you should try to get a little more sleep before you go. You drove a whole night without stopping, and I'm guessin' you didn't sleep too hot last night, either."

Sam shakes his head, hands Dean the Styrofoam container with his omelet. "I'll sleep when this thing is over. God, I'll sleep for a year."

"Doesn't really seem fair," Dean says ruefully as Sam chugs his coffee. "I'm stuck in a bed, you're stuck out of one."

Sam laughs, starts destroying his stack of blueberry pancakes.

Dean pushes himself up a little more, tightens his jaw as his body protests. God, it would be so easy to just take a couple Vicodin, let the warmth uncurl in his chest, push the pain to the back burner. Why did he decide to do this, anyway? It's a stupid idea, doesn't make any sense to sit in pain like this when he could fix it with just a couple pills; they're right there.

He's got the bottle in his hand when he stops, checks himself. Because this? This right here? He's thinking like an addict. He realizes he wants these pills like he wants a cigarette, that itch in his head and his fingers, not to mention the throb of his leg.

He makes himself put the bottle down, lights a smoke instead, runs a hand over his forehead and realizes that his skin is damp; he's sweating. Jesus.

"Dean," Sam says. "That omelet's gonna get cold."

Dean nods, takes a long drag and then rests it in the ashtray, eats a strip of bacon and a couple forkfuls of omelet. Drinks half his coffee in one swallow, smokes the rest of his cigarette, then gets through about three quarters of his eggs before he has to stop, feels his stomach surge uncomfortably.

"Good," Sam says approvingly, like Dean is four years old, and Dean thinks back on all the times he used that same tone with Sam, trying to convince him that peas and candy were made of the same thing, just shaped different. Sam fell for it, hard – the kid still loves peas as much as he loves gummi bears. Which is quite a lot.

"All right," Sam says, dumping the Styrofoam trays into the trashcan. "I'm going. Need anything?"

"Laptop," Dean says. "Water. Stripper."

"In that order?" Sam asks, sets up the laptop, gives Dean a glass of water, puts another one on the table. "You take any ibuprofen yet?" Sam asks.

"No!" Dean says, is embarrassed at how glad he feels. Ibuprofen, he can take, definitely doesn't count as a painkiller. Probably won't do much, but it might do _something._

He breaks out into another cold sweat as Sam hands him the bottle, a tight ache building slowly in his head. He swallows down the ibuprofen, thinks for one second that his stomach's gonna reject everything he just ate, has to sit very still for a few minutes until the nausea passes.

"You all right?" Sam asks. "You don't look so good, dude."

"You've been telling me that a lot, lately," Dean snaps, runs a shirtsleeve over his forehead.

"Yeah, well, now even worse than usual." He steps closer, squints, "Your pupils are massive, dude, are you—"

"Sam," Dean barks, "just get the fuck off my back, would you?"

Sam steps away, looking wounded, shrugs into his sweatshirt and jacket without another word.

Dean feels a surge of guilt for taking shit out on Sam, yet again, but _fuck, _his leg is killing him and now his head's starting up, too, stomach roiling, and he could fix it with two pills and a freaky lollipop. What is he _doing?_

Sam, at the door, makes like he's gonna leave without saying anything, but he turns at the last second.

"Keep your phone on, call me if you need anything, I'll be back in a couple hours." He moves, and Dean can tell he's about to slam the door.

"Hey," Dean says quickly. "Keep me updated, huh? Don't do anything stupid without calling me first." _I'm sorry. Be careful._

Sam snorts, but gives a little nod. _Then _he slams the door.

Once Sam's gone, Dean relaxes a fraction, lets out the long, low groan that's been building up inside him all morning. He wishes he could just _scream, _but he sure as hell doesn't want to bring any curious motel-owners into this room.

He takes a deep breath instead, runs his hands over his face, blinks hard because he's on the verge of tears _again, _for pretty much no reason. Sam's driving him crazy with his mother-hen routine, but it's like as soon as Dean's alone everything just crumbles. Like if he doesn't have anyone to hold it up in front of, it all falls down.

And what the fuck is that about, because he used to be able to hold it up for _himself, _not just for Sam.

He works the pillows on the bed a little, swaps his cold pack for a hot one, tries to get comfortable, but he can't. The pounding agony of just-waking-up has been replaced by something duller and steadier, like a deep, pinching ache that just will not quit. So this is his natural state. Sucks. At least he knows he'll feel better once the Trigonomic Bursawdust or whatever goes away. _If _it goes away. Though it doesn't seem like anything's ever going to go the fuck away, not until he's dead, anyway. Probably not even then. He pounds his fist into the bed by his bad him, slams his head against the headboard so hard he sees stars for a moment.

This isn't normal, can't be normal to feel this hysterical_… _But jesus, how is he supposed to feel, given the givens? His life pretty much blowsat this point in time, and there's not a lot of signs that it's gonna improve. How is yet another drug going to make him feel any better?

Then again, sure can't make him feel worse_._

Reluctantly, he takes out the bottle of anti-depressants the doctor gave him and types the name into Google. That nurse, Wendy, she talked him through everything, but he wasn't really listening to her, like, at all, and he wants to know what he's getting himself into before he adds another chemical supplement to his growing list.

He checks Wikipedia, peruses a bunch of message boards, gets a little freaked out by the long list of side effects, though one that lots of people seem upset about is weight gain, which at this point isn't exactly unwelcome. Yawning, shaking, tiredness, yadda yadda yadda… Takes a few weeks to kick in, which seems a little pointless, since he feels like shit right _now…_

But why the fuck not? He's sitting in a motel room sniffling into his pillow like a thirteen year-old girl whose parents banned her from the mall, which really isn't like him. Dean's not used to feeling this out of control, _hates _it. His body's already completely reneged on him, and now it feels like his mind's going the same route.

He opens the bottle, shakes the pills out into his hand, looks at them for a long while. This is … embarrassing. He should be able to deal with this shit himself – he needs crutches to walk, now he needs crutches to _think_? What would his dad say? _Suck it up, kid. _Then he'd pour him a drink.

Well, fuck, isn't drinking pretty much just self-medicating, anyway? How come he's not embarrassed to get shit-faced in front of his brother, but he's terrified that Sam will find out he's taking anti-depressants? What the hell?

All right, he thinks, this is fuckin' ridiculous. He's overthinking this way too much, and his own level of introspection is starting to make him nervous, claustrophobic in his own skin. He's not a thinker – he's a doer. So fuck it: he palms the meds into his mouth, swallows them with a swig of water. If it helps, great, if not, he'll stop.

Goddammit, he's just swapping painkillers for painkillers. He's clearly gonna be on some kind of drug no matter what he does, so he should just take the freakin' Vicodin. If he's gonna quit something it should be smoking, and he's just not ready for that yet.

He types _Vicodin _into the laptop's search window, gets the same kind of message-threads he found with _Lexapro, _figures out pretty quickly that the sweating, the nausea, the big pupils, and the headache are all byproducts of fucking _withdrawal_. If his stomach and the boards are any indication, he's gonna either puke or have diarrhea pretty fuckin' soon. Gross.

He's trying to stop the painkillers why again? To be clearheaded? Yeah, like thisis clearheaded. To prove to himself that he's not an addict? Dean, meet withdrawal. The addiction ship has pretty much sailed.

He should get off this freakin' computer, these comments are only succeeding in making him feel even worse about himself: _Vic almost killed me; Scammed prescriptions and went to jail; Painkillers are for people too weak to just suck it up; JESUS DID NOT TAKE VICODIN AND HE WOULD NOT WANT HIS CHILDREN TOO TOGETER IN CHRIST…_

Though, the longer he looks, the more he realizes that most of the comments are positive, singing the praises of painkillers: _Helps me be a good mother to my children, Couldn't get through the day without it, Lets me keep my job…_ Some of these people are a lot fuckin' worse off then he is, broken backs, brain tumors, renal failure…

He pauses on one long message, reads it and then rereads it.

_Hey, my name's Kate, I'm 24 and was in a horrific car accident a few years ago. I shattered my pelvis and hip beyond repair and am now forced to walk with a cane – on a good day. I've been taking Vicodin for two and a half years and I'll probably take it, or something like it, for the rest of my life. Addiction is different than dependence, people. I depend on Vicodin to allow me to live a quality of life that feels like LIFE – if it weren't for painkillers, I would stay at home in bed all day watching shitty movies and eating foods fried in lard until I got a heart attack and died. So, yeah, maybe I'm dependant on painkillers, because I, you know, don't want to feel like shit all the time. So all you sanctimonious people preaching the dangers of "addiction" and the evils of prescription painkillers clearly have not experienced the level of life-altering pain that I would be forced to live with every day were it not for Vicodin. So please, try and show at least a little respect when you dash around the internet condemning those of us who are not as lucky as you are. THANKS. Kate._

It's followed by a ton of comments, most of them positive, people sharing their own stories in corroboration with Kate.

Dean, feeling like a complete idiot but feeling also like he owes this chick something, types _Hell yeah, you go girl _in the reply box, signs it Cassandra. Facepalm. He sits still for a moment, swipes at his forehead, feels a tremor shake his body.

Then he takes his Vicodin.

***

Missouri's house looks pretty much like a normal house. Sam isn't sure what he was expecting – at least those shiny silver garden-balls, maybe some weird flowers out front, chintzy new-age curtains.

He walks in, sees a couch and a sign that says _Wait. _He sits down awkwardly, runs his hands up and down his thighs, hums a little. After a couple minutes, he hears voices, and a nervous-looking man enters, followed by a short, heavyset black woman who's got her hand hovering by his shoulderblades, saying, "All right, there. Don't you worry 'bout a thing. Your wife is crazy about you."

"Thank you," the man says, "thank you so much."

"Mmm hmm," she says, ushers him out the door, turns to Sam and shakes her head like they were in the middle of a conversation that the man had interrupted.

"Whew. Poor bastard. His woman is cold-bangin' the gardener."

"You didn't want to tell him?" Sam asks.

She fixes him with a level stare. "People don't come here for the truth. They come for good news. Which you haven't really heard much of lately, have you, Sam?"

"Uh—" Sam says, startled into speechlessness.

"What with your father gone missin', your brother 'bout as mobile as a dead cat, and…" her look softens. "and I'm sorry about your girlfriend, Jessica. Musta been hard."

"How did you know all that?" Sam gets out.

"I'm _psychic_, honey, what, they don't teach vocabulary in school anymore?" She looks him up and down, smiles for the first time. "Well. You sure did grow up handsome, didn't you? Come on, I ain't got all day."

Sam follows her into the next room, dazed. "Have a seat," she says, and he takes the couch while she settles herself in an armchair.

"How's Dean?" Missouri asks. "Besides an asshole."

Sam starts, laughs. "How'd you know my brother's an asshole?"

"Well, you were thinkin' it just now."

Sam is stunned into silence.

"Also thinkin' bout how you hope he's doin' all right there alone. He's fine, honey. Fine as he can be, anyway." She sighs, shakes her head. "All right, ask me your questions. You did come here to ask questions, didn't you?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam says. "Mostly about our dad. John Winchester. And why he came to you, and, you know, what you told him."

"Well," Missouri says. "He came for a reading. A few days after the fire. And I – I just told him what was really out there. I guess you could say I – drew back the curtains for him."

"So, you know about the fire? And about what killed our mom?"

"I know a little. Your daddy took me to the house, hopin' I could sense the echoes, the fingerprints of this thing."

Sam swallows. "And could you?"

Missouri shakes her head, rocks a little in the seat. "All I know is… it was evil."

"No shit," Sam snorts. Adds, "Sorry."

"Boy, do I look the kind of woman who would mind a little cussin'?"

"I—"

"Don't answer that." She tilts her head. "You know, I've kept my eye on that house. Never been any problem."

"'Til now," Sam says grimly, and her eyes go wide.

Sam tells her what he knows, and she shakes her head. "Well, shit." She gives him a mild smile. "Hear that? Cuss word."

"Right."

"Lord knows I never wanted to go back into that house, but doesn't seem like I've got much of a choice, now, does it?"

"well—"

"You need some coffee or somethin' before we go?" she looks Sam up and down.  
"I swear, you could make a corpse look downright lively."

"Coffee would be great," Sam says fervently, follows her into the kitchen. "I guess I haven't been getting much sleep."

"Worryin'?" she asks, pours him a cup of coffee and gestures for him to sit down.

"Yeah," Sam says, "and…" he trails off.

"Nightmares?" she says softly.

"Yeah."

"We're not talkin' your everyday wake-up-and-it's-over type'a thing, are we."

"No."

He sips his coffee in silence while she looks at him, and he wishes that it were later in the day so he could top his cup off with the flask he knows is in the Impala's glovebox.

"Your daddy swore you were going to grow up tall," Missouri says unexpectedly. "He showed me your hands, said, this kid's gonna sprout like a weed."

Sam smiles a little. "He was right."

"You sure were cute. Your brother, though, hmmm… he still kinda funny-lookin'?"

Sam blurts a laugh, is tempted to say _yes, _but, "God, no. Not even a little."

"Yeah, I figured he'd grow up easy on the eyes. That smile, lord. Think he knew it, too, troublemaker like that. First five minutes he came in this house, he'd broken my mama's favorite vase, killed my goldfish, and asked me if I was fixin' to die anytime soon, seein' as how I was so old."

Sam chuckles, drains the rest of his coffee. "Thanks," he says, stands, and she takes his empty mug.

She runs a hand lightly over the Impala's hood when she sees it, opens the door with a gentle reverence.

"I remember this car," she says, settling herself in the passenger seat. "It's changed."

"Has it?" Sam says. "I guess we replaced the fender a couple years—"

"That ain't what I mean and you know it," she says, whacks him with the back of her hand. "It's just… she knows who she is, now. This old girl's carried a lot of hard times. Fair share of good ones, too."

"Yeah," Sam says, feels a surge of emotion climb up behind his eyes as he takes her wheel, the only constant home in his life since he was six months old. "Sure has."

Missouri sits quietly as Sam starts the car, as he puts it into gear and dials Dean's number.

"Hey," Dean drawls. "Y'miss me already?"

"We're goin' over to the house," Sam says. "Check it out."

"You with the psychic?"

"Yeah."

"She hot?"

Sam glances at Missouri, seated calmly in the seat next to him. Did she hear that? Does she know what he's thinking? Shit. What does he say? She's all-right looking, sure, but at least fifty, and –

"She right there?" Dean asks.

"Yeah," Sam says, relieved.

"All right. Call me when you figure out what's what, okay?"

" 'Kay," Sam says, tries to hold himself back, but, "How you doin' over there?"

"Just found this cooking channel. Watching them make chocolate cake."

"Okay."

"Naked."

"You or the cooking people?"

"Cooking people, dumbass. And they're speaking French. I think these antennae picked up some weird food porn network."

"Hope I didn't interrupt anything. I'll call you later."

Dean hangs up.

"Cooking people?" Missouri says, arching an eyebrow.

"He found the food network," Sam says. "Uh, Dean loves to cook."

She gives him a sidelong glance, and he wonders if she knows everything he's thinking all the time. His brain immediately jumps to all the things he shouldn't be thinking about_ pornpenisnippleslubegunsdrugsbradpittinfightclub _and then wonders if thinking about how he shouldn't be thinking about those things counts as thinking about them.

_Shit. _He sneaks a look at her, but she's staring forward, humming a little to herself under her breath. God knows what that means. Sam thinks as hard as he can about panda bears until they get to the house.

Jenny answers the door breathless, eyes scared. Sam's seen that look before, the what-the-fucking-is-happening look, and they don't have to sell her on the idea that there's bad energy in the house. Missouri's pretty damn convincing.

They move through the rooms, Missouri's eyes alert, head cocked, as if she's listening in for something. Sam watches, tries to mimic her moves. He has psychic dreams, for god's sake – maybe he can feel something. He quiets his body down, moves slow upstairs, keeps his head blank. There is something – something in the back of his head, something dark gnawing at him, like spilled ink seeping onto the edge of a piece of paper. But that may just be the normal, everyday darkness of living his day-to-day life – it's not exactly sunshine and carebears.

Missouri stops in Sari's bedroom, turns. Sam feels the hackles on the back of his neck prickle.

"If there's dark energy around here, this room should be the center of it."

"Why?"

She looks at him, eyes guarded and a little sad. "This used to be your nursery, Sam. This is where –" she stops.

Sam swallows, looks around. Teddy bears on the bed. A mirror in the shape of a heart. Pink t-shirts on the floor. This is where his mother burned. This is where his family was ripped apart. It's been theoretical for him, up until now, the mythic place where it all began. _Lawrence, _as unthinkable as _Babylon _or _Atlantis. _But no, here it is, here is where Dean carried him out of the house, where his father watched the woman he love bleed and die, just as Sam watched Jess die. He wishes Dean were here, wishes, wildly, that his father were here – just someone who understands. But its just Missouri, opening the closet, peering behind chairs.

"Sam," Missouri says, straightening with a sigh. "This ain't the thing that took your mom."

"Really?" Sam says. "Wait, are you sure?"

"You doubtin' me? It isn't the same energy I felt last time I was here. It's somethin' different. 'Scuse me – something_s _different."

"Things?"

"There's more than one spirit in this place. What happened to your mama, to your family – that kind of evil leaves wounds. And sometimes, wounds get infected. One of these infections, I can tell you straight, is a poltergeist. A nasty one. And it won't rest until Jenny and her babies are dead."

Sam tightens his lips. "You said there was more than one?"

"There is. Just can't quite make out the second one."

"So," Sam says. "What do we do?"

***

Sam opens the door of the motel room and is met with the sound of explosions – pow! Pow! Pow!

Dean's sitting up in bed, laptop settled carefully on his lap, tongue between his teeth, playing some elaborate war game online.

"Hey," he says, looking up as Sam and Missouri enter. Sam's nose tickles, and he realizes that Dean's spritzed some air freshener around the room in preparation for their guest, tidied up a little – which means he got out of bed, the idiot – though the stench of cigarettes and not-too-clean boys still lies under the fake strawberry.

Sam had called Dean after Missouri had described her plan, convinced his brother that they needed his help to assemble the little bundles of herbs and charms they would put in the north, south, east, and western corners on each floor of the house.

"You don't need me for that shit," Dean had said, but his protests were half-hearted. Sam knew it was driving his brother crazy being on the outskirts of the action, updated by phone.

"You must be Missouri," Dean says now, leveraging himself a little higher on the bed and easing the laptop off his lap. "Sorry, I'd get up, but—"

"That's all right," she says, comes over to shake his hand. "No need to strain your manners for me."

Dean looks indignant, but has the good sense not to say anything except, "So, poltergeist, huh?"

"Sure looks like it," Missouri says with a sigh, starts taking ingredients out of the brown paper bag she's brought with her, lays them out on Dean's bed as he scoots aside a little to make room.

"So this is how we kill it?" Dean says skeptically, reaches out and snags a jar. "Basil?"

Missouri smacks his hand and he drops the jar with a curse. "Not everything can be solved with a gun, boy!"

"Wanna bet?" Dean mutters, but shuts his mouth, busies himself with an icepack and the pack of nicorette. Sam grins, wishes he could shut Dean up as easy.

She directs them quickly, efficiently, sorting herbs, measuring, muttering incantations, tying everything up into bundles.

"This should purify the house," Missouri says when they've finished. "But Sam, we've gotta work _fast_. When the spirits catch onto what's happening, things'll get ugly quick. I'll start in the basement, you start upstairs, and we'll work downwards and meet in the middle."

"I should come," Dean says, chewing hard on his gum – apparently doesn't want to smoke in the room while Missouri's present. "That way we can each take a floor. It'll go a hell of a lot quicker, be a hell of a lot safer."

"No," Sam says, shaking his head. "We've got it covered." He looks at Missouri, who nods.

"Hope we do. We oughta."

"I'll take the ground floor," Dean argues, "won't even have to go up stairs or anything. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am. Done deal."

"No," Sam says again. "Just three more days, dude. Tough it out."

Dean's jaw tightens, looks like he's going to say something else, but Missouri interrupts him.

"I think your brother and I can handle ourselves," she says. "Just 'cause I'm _old _doesn't mean I can't punch a few holes in some walls."

"I didn't—" Dean tries, frustrated, "I just think—"

"Dude," Sam says. "We'll be back in like, an hour. Okay? I'll call you as soon as we get out."

Dean gives up, flops back against the headboard, and Sam has to look away, guilt surging through him at the defeated look that crosses his brother's face, defeated and something worse – sadness? Anger? Despair. He almost wants to take it back, let Dean come, but Dean'll never get better if he keeps moving around. This is a shitty time to be in bed, yeah, but this hunt seems like it's easier for one person than most, so it's not that bad.

Dean watches, eyes dark, as Sam and Missouri gather the bundles, as Sam checks his gun, tucks it into the back of his jeans.

"I'll call you as soon as we get out," Sam says again, and Dean just nods.

"Sorry," Sam says in the car. "He's kinda surly sometimes."

"He's hurtin'," Missouri says. "Even pain makes the best man uncivil, sometimes. Not that that's any excuse."

"Yeah," Sam snorts. "Dean's hardly the best man, anyway." He feels immediately bad for saying it, because, yeah, he kind of _is. _At least in Sam's book. Sam runs a hand through his hair, tries not to think about the stricken look on his brother's face. He runs a hand through his hair, blinks, wishes he'd had another cup of coffee. He can't wait to lie down in his bed tonight, put his head on the pillow, close his eyes, oh man, it's gonna be awesome.

Jenny's uncomfortable leaving them alone, and Sam doesn't blame her – a couple of strangers show up, tell you they want to hang out in your house for a while, without you, so they can get rid of some "bad energy" – pretty suspicious. But Jenny's freaked, and it's clear that she's seen some of this energy herself, so she leaves with the kids, however reluctantly, and Sam and Missouri get to work.

Sam starts in the south corner of the house, knocks a hole in the wall with a hammer and tosses the first purification bag in. Makes his way to the east corner, using a compass his dad gave him for his fifteenth birthday, knocks another hole in the wall, deposits another bag. Easy. He's glad he didn't let Dean come.

He's kneeling down by the wall in the north corner, working the hammer through a piece of particularly hard plaster, when he hears a crash from behind him.

He turns, heart already pounding, barely has time to see the lamp on the ground and the lampchord flying towards him when the cord wraps itself around his neck, and he can feel it slice through his skin as it tightens, as he gasps for breath, hands going to his neck, grappling uselessly as it gets tighter, tighter.

No, he thinks incoherently, no, no no no no no no and now his vision's getting dim, stars obscuring the room around him and fuck, who's gonna tell Dean, who's gonna tell his father, oh Jess, Dean, and he feels the strength leaving his arms, feels the cord wrap tighter, breath just a dream at this point, choking, drowning. His hands falter, drop from his neck, and he feels the fight leaving his body, feels himself slump down onto the floor, feels like everything's gone still. He imagines, now in his last moments, that the chord has loosened, imagines he feels big, calloused hands on his face, Dean's hands, _oh Dean, _and then everything goes black.

To Be Continued…


	6. Chapter 6

Sam wakes up hard, all gasps and sputters and flailing arms, feels his fist connect with flesh before his vision has cleared enough for him to see who's holding him so tight.

"Woah, woah, Sammy," says a familiar voice, and Sam's whole body goes still. The grip on his shirt loosens and Sam squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again.

His father's got one arm around Sam's shoulders, the other hand fisted in the flannel shirt at his chest, keeping him half-upright from where he's sprawled on the floor. John looks tired, sports a fading black eye and a wicked gash down his cheek that's been stitched hastily in black thread. New wrinkles around his eyes, a new scar across his temple, thinner, older, but _Dad_. Sam opens his mouth, closes it, vocal chords not working, maybe because they've just been crushed by a lamp chord, or maybe because he hasn't seen his father in four years and he has so much to say to him that silence is just easier for now.

"Hey," his father says. "Sammy. Hey."

"Sam," Sam rasps, lets out a cough and fights his way out of his father's arms to sit up on his own. "It's Sam."

"Sam," John says, rocks back on his heels a little as Sam winces, touches his throat. "We gotta get some ice on that or it's gonna swell."

"What…" Sam clears his throat. "What the hell are you doing here?"

His father's eyes flick to the doorway, and all of a sudden Sam notices Missouri standing there, though she ducks out once she's been spotted. "Got a call," he says. "I just got in, drove up from New Orleans. Came straight here. Sam, I—"

"No," Sam says, holds up a hand. "Give me a minute." He stays on the ground, because he doesn't think his legs would hold him right now, feels his heart beating so fast he's surprised it hasn't broken through his chest. Okay. Dad. Here. _Dad. _Dad, who they've been looking for for months, who he hasn't seen in four years, Dad, who left his brother alone in a hospital, who hasn't called, or sent a message, who told him he could never come back if he left, who rocked him to sleep, who taught him how to use a shotgun, who just busted in here and saved his life like the badass hero Dean always told Sam he was.

"Help me up," Sam grates out, voice sore, and his father climbs to his feet, clasps Sam's hand, pulls him up. There's a second of hesitation, and then Sam finds himself being pulled into a hug, pulled into his father's arms, nose pressed up against the leather of his jacket, breathing the scent of him, and even though he's much taller than his father, John has managed to wrangle it so that he's tucked into his shoulder, arms at his sides, and he lets go, stops fighting, wraps his arms around his father and fists his hands in the back of his jacket, squeezes his eyes shut and does everything he can not to cry. It works, mostly.

Finally, Sam tugs away, and John lets out a strangled little half-laugh, his own eyes damp.

"Shit, Sammy," his father says, hand still on Sam's shoulder. "You're even taller than I remembered."

"Grew three inches freshman year," Sam says, then hauls back and punches John square in the jaw, quick, effective, not holding back at all. John rocks backwards and Sam reaches forward to steady him as his father grips his jaw, stunned.

"Jesus fucking mother of christ goddammit, Sammy!"

"It's Sam," Sam says. "And that was for Dean, you jackass, because we both know he'd never do it."

"Fuck," John says, dabs at his lip. His fingers come away bloody. "_Fuck. _Guess I deserved that."

"No shit. What the hell were you thinking?"

"Can we not do this right now?" John asks, closing his eyes, one hand still cradling his jaw. "Can we just get the fuck away from this house?"

"Is it clean?"

"Missouri says it is."

Sam eyes him, lips tight. "You're not gettin' out of this."

"When have you ever let me get out of anything? We'll talk, Sam. Just – not now."

Sam nods once, leads the way downstairs, to where Missouri's sitting on the couch with Jenny and the kids. The downstairs is a wreck, and Sam wondered what happened. He notices that Missouri's holding onto her ribs, wheezing a little, and he hopes she's all right.

"We'll foot the cleaning bill," Sam says. "We'll send someone over later."

"Okay," Jenny says, looking dazed, then, "no, hey. No. If you got rid of – whatever – you don't owe us anything. I can sweep a kitchen if it means my kids are safe."

Sam smiles exhaustedly. "Okay."

She nods, eyes going to John. "Who's that?"

"John Winchester," his father says smoothly, coming forward to shake her hand, and as Jenny blushes Sam suddenly remembers where Dean gets that effortless charm.

"I'm Jenny," she says. "Winchester… are you Sam's dad?"

"Yes ma'am," he says, dimples.

"I've got some of your old pictures," she says, "you and your family, your wife and the kids when they were little."

John doesn't let his expression change, just cocks his head. "Oh?"

"Just gimme a second and I'll—" and she dashes from the room, leaving Sari and Richie staring up at them with wide eyes.

"Hey," John says gravely.

"Hey," says Sari.

"Juicy," Richie says, waves a fist. "Juicy juicy."

John turns to Sam, raises an eyebrow, and Jenny comes back in holding a shoebox.

"Here you go," she says. "I think all this stuff is yours."

John accepts it with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Appreciate it," he says.

"We'd best be goin'," Missouri says. "Call that brother of yours."

"Bye," Sam says, and Jenny waves.

"How is Dean?" John asks casually, but Sam hears the tension and longing wrapped up under his voice.

"I don't know," Sam says. "Kinda fucked up?"

John winces. "Is he… does he…"

"I'm not talkin' to you about Dean," Sam says. "You can talk to him yourself."

John takes a breath as they reach the car, as he automatically goes around to the driver's seat.

"You're kidding, right?" Sam says, holds up the keys. "In the back."

John blinks, but slides into the back seat without protests as Missouri settles herself up front. She glances nervously from father to son.

"Thank you so much for your help," Sam says. "We'll take you home."

"Oh," John says suddenly. He points to a squat black pickup sitting across the street, starts to get out of the car. "I'll take the truck."

"Yeah, right," Sam says. "Like I'm gonna give you the chance to disappear on us again."

"Sam," he says. "I'm not goin' anywhere, all right? I'm here, aren't I? I promise not to disappear."

"Follow me, then," Sam says. "We'll drop off Missouri first. If I see you make a detour I swear to god I'm comin' after you."

The car ride to Missouri's is tense, quiet, and Sam doesn't bother trying to make conversation, not even for Missouri's sake, trying to plan what he'll say to John. All he wants to do is pepper his father with a million questions, a million accusations. He feels – fuck, he doesn't know how he feels. Anger, resentment, worry, memory, love, everything all knotted together in his stomach. A sick feeling that there's still something wrong with the house, a sick feeling that his brother's gonna freak out if he brings John back without a warning, a sick feeling that if he calls first Dean'll freak out even more. God, he hopes he doesn't puke.

They let Missouri out and Sam walks her to her door, thanks her again. He comes back to the Impala but doesn't get inside just yet, leans on her sturdy roof and tries to take a little comfort from the feeling of cold metal under his cheek.

His father gets out of the truck, comes to stand beside him, but Sam holds up his hand as John tries to speak, leans into the car and fumbles the flask out of the glove compartment and takes a long swallow, grimaces, more from the pain in his throat than from the alcohol. He holds the flask to his father, who accepts it after a moment's hesitation, sips, passes it back. Sam takes another healthy swig, screws the cap back on, rocks on the balls of his feet

"You gonna call your brother?" John asks.

"No," Sam says shortly. Dean's seemed a little… a little unstable, lately, and Sam doesn't want to give him too much time alone to freak out about it before John shows up. And… if he's being honest… he's hoping that maybe the surprise of seeing John will startle Dean into a _real_ reaction, rather than the poker-faced smoothness he knows Dean'll put on if he's got time to prepare. He wants Dean to be angry at their father, as angry as Sam is, and he wants him to _show_ it, instead of just pushing it down and forgiving John like he always does.

"Listen," John says. "I know you're pissed at me. I guess I don't blame you. But what I did… it seemed right, at the time. Maybe, yeah, maybe I coulda handled it a little better, but I did what I thought was best for Dean, and he—"

"What you thought was best for _Dean_?" Sam spits out incredulously. "No, Dad, you did what you thought was best for you, for you and your goddamn _crusade_. You didn't want Dean slowing you down, so you just _ditched_ him, no explanation, nothing. He's done everything you've ever asked of him, given you everything, followed you everywhere, and as soon as he's not useful to you anymore, you throw him out like you'd throw out a gun that doesn't shoot, like he's a faulty weapon instead of your son who was_ hurt _and who _needed you._"

"Sam," John says, voice gone steely. "I will not have you passing judgments on me. I made some choices that I'm not proud of, but if I had to go back and do it again, I wouldn't change anything. I left to protect Dean, not to—"

"Oh, that's great, protect him by—"

"Do not interrupt me," John says, drill sergeant once more, all traces of the father gone.

"Don't order me around like I'm still your fucking _soldier_," Sam retorts. "I'm _not_. You didn't want to protect Dean, you just wanted him out of the way."

"I'm not defending myself to you," John says. "You don't wanna hear what I have to say, you just want to be angry at me. You've always just wanted to be angry at me. This isn't about Dean, it's about—"

"It _is _about Dean," Sam says, slamming a hand on the Impala's hood. "It _is_. That's what you don't fucking understand."

"Don't tell me what I don't understand. You wanna talk about leaving? Fine. Let's talk about leaving. You know anything about _leaving_, Sammy?"

"Save it," Sam snaps. "Let's just fucking go."

He yanks open the door of the Impala, buckles his seatbelt violently, starts the car and glares at John through the window. His father throws up his hands, heads back over to the truck, waits for Sam to pull out in front of him before starting the engine.

Sam watches his father in the rearview the whole time, still can't quite believe that he's there. Why, why now? Why here? Why had Missouri called him in the first place? At least, he assumes it was Missouri. Maybe it was the garage guy, who the fuck knows? Their father has ways of knowing shit that he has no right knowing.

At the motel, Sam parks the car with a squeal of brakes, hurls himself from the car so fast he nearly gives himself a concussion on the roof. John climbs out slower, and Sam sees him take in the handicapped sign on the door, sees his jaw tighten. John Winchester, meet reality. Got a feeling you two aren't going to get along too well.

Sam slides the key in the lock, rattles it around to make some noise so Dean's got some warning he's coming, in case he's, whatever, Sam doesn't want to think too hard about it. He opens the door, moves into the room while John hangs back a little.

Dean's half-reclining against the headboard, icepack pressed absently to his hip, good leg bent up, newspaper on his lap and red pen in hand.

He looks up when Sam enters, relief flooding his face until he sees Sam's expression. "What's wrong? You all right? Something happen?"

"Yeah," Sam says, steps aside so John can enter.

For one tense, horrible moment, Sam watches his brother's face and is one hundred percent certain that Dean is going to dissolve into tears, but then his expression is wiped smooth, blank.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

"Hey, Dean," John says, and Sam has to turn away at the look on his face, worried and joyful and desperate and hungry... If he watches that face too long, he'll forget to be angry at his father, and Sam _wants _to be angry. John moves forward towards the bed, hesitantly, as Dean pushes himself upright. "How are you?"

"Fine," Dean says automatically, and Sam makes a beeline for the mini fridge. He needs a drink, _now. _

John sits on the bed next to Dean, hand listing forward to touch his hair briefly, then slide down and clasp his shoulder, squeeze it tight. Dean doesn't move, is rigid, lets his father cup his jaw in one broad palm and turn his face gently.

"You've lost a lot of weight," John says finally.

"Yeah, well," Dean says. "You got kind of pudgy."

John snorts, lets his hand fall back by his side as Sam comes over to sit on his bed across from them, cracks his beer and chugs half of it in one go, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. This is exactly what he was afraid of. Dean, just clamming up, shutting down, emotions packed away somewhere hidden, where even Dean has trouble finding them. It makes Sam want to scream. The air is so tense he feels like he could rip through it with his bare hands.

"That new?" Dean asks, touching his lip, and John reaches up for his own, remembers the fresh cut there.

"Your brother punched me," he says wryly, and the corner of Dean's mouth quirks up.

"Right hook?"

"Yeah. It's gotten better. You been teachin' him?"

"More like re-teaching. He got a little soft at that school of his. Got smarter, too. You even think that was possible?"

John shakes his head, smiles, and Sam glances up at the unexpected praise.

Dean shifts away from his father a little, reaches for his cigarettes on the night table, a strange sight, since he almost never smokes in front of their father. His fingers are trembling – that's one thing he never could hide, and it's gotten worse since his accident – and it takes him a couple clumsy seconds to wrangle one from the pack.

"Can't believe you're still smoking those goddamn things," John says.

_You're why_, Sam wants to knows that Dean only started smoking in high school because he knew his father would disapprove, knew that it would be a clear, visual indicator that Dean wasn't the perfect soldier Sam always accused him of being, that he could defy orders just like any ordinary kid. So maybe it's partially Sam's fault, too.

Dean doesn't answer, just gets his cigarette lit and takes a long drag, eyes his father through the smoke. "Why're you here?" he asks.

"Got a call," John says.

Dean drags on his cigarette again, pulls the icepack off his hip, looks at it, tosses it onto the bed, takes his time answering. "Yeah? You get a lotta calls, if I remember correctly. Never seemed to make much difference, before."

John shrugs out of his leather jacket, rolls up the sleeves of his red flannel shirt, licks his lips like he's trying to gather his words.

"I guess –" he pauses. "I guess I just lost sight of why I was running," he says. "I left because I didn't want you hunting, didn't want you getting into this. I thought – I thought I was protecting you. But it's clear that you're hunting anyway, with or without my bein' here." He opens his palms on his knees, a bizarre, helpless gesture.

"Bullshit," Sam says, setting down his almost-empty beer can with a thunk. "You came 'cause you thought this might have something to do with the thing that killed mom, the _demon._"

John rubs his jaw tiredly. "That was part of it," he admits, casting a look at Dean, "but only a small part. Think about it, Sam, if it were just for the demon, I could have kept outta sight, could have—"

"Bet you thought about it, though," Sam snarls. "Bet you thought real long and real hard about it."

"Sam," Dean says, tone flat, flicks ash and takes a drag. "Cool it."

"Please," Sam says, "_please _don't tell me you're defending him, after what he did to you."

"He didn't do anything to me," Dean says, flushing. "He made a call, and, okay, maybe it was a shitty fucking call, really shitty," brief glance at his father, "but he did what he thought he had to do at the time."

"How can you say that?" Sam hisses, feeling betrayed.

"He was right," Dean says helplessly, "I woulda slowed him down. What was he supposed to do, Sam, sit on his ass in South Dakota for four months?"

"Yes," Sam says, "that's exactly what he was supposed to do. You woke up _alone_, Dean, and you spent four months alone in that fucking hospital, you thought he was _dead, _'cause why the fuck else would he leave you like that without even a note, hurt and by yourself and—"

"_Cool it, _Sam," Dean says, eyes flashing dangerously, and Sam draws in a ragged breath, realizes that he's on the verge of tears, fists clenched tight. He gets up, stalks over to get another beer, then changes his mind and goes for the bottle of Jack on the television.

John hasn't said anything, watching the back-and-forth between his sons, face tight.

Sam pours himself a drink into a Styrofoam cup that has the dregs of his morning coffee still left over, downs it and pours another one, comes back to where his father and brother are sitting silently on Dean's bed.

"I hate this," Sam says vehemently. "It's always the same fucking thing, every time. You'll excuse him for whatever he does, and I'm the bad guy, I'm the freak who stands up to him when he's fucked up, I'm the one who tells him what's really going on, while you—"

"I'm not excusing him," Dean snaps, "I'm just saying—"

"What _are _you saying, Dean?" Sam asks. "'Huh? If you're not makin' excuses like you always fucking do, then what _are _you saying?"

"I'm sayin' I can't do this right now," Dean barks. "I don't want to do this right now. Talk about excuses? That's about how I feel, Sam – I'm just another fuckin' excuse for you to get pissed off at Dad. I don't wanna argue with you, man, and I don't wanna argue with Dad, not now that he's here, not after we spent four fucking months looking for him, 'cause what the fuck's the point, what the—" Dean stops, takes a deep breath, shakes his head. "I can't do this right now," he says again, and Sam realizes that he means it.

"Dean," John says, voice soft, "I—"

But Dean shakes his head violently, presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I don't really wanna hear it, Dad," he says. "Okay? Save it for a greeting card."

John nods, rubs a hand on the back of his head, a gesture Sam recognizes from Dean.

"So what are we supposed to do?" Sam asks. "Make nice? Play candyland?"

"I don't know about you boys," John says after a moment, "but I'm starving. What do you say I'll buy you dinner? Passed a pretty good-looking steakhouse a couple miles down the road. Fancy. Hard-earned cash, too – won at poker a couple nights ago."

Sam looks at Dean, but he's busy putting out his cigarette, won't meet Sam's eyes. _Your call_.

He's pissed at John, pissed at Dean, who really shouldn't be getting out of bed, but… "Okay," Sam says finally. "But I'm ordering the most expensive thing on the menu, and two desserts, and drinks."

"You always were a pissy little date," John says, half smiles. "Though it looks like you already got started on those drinks."

Sam just glares at him and tosses back the coffee-flavored Jack. The kind of day he had, he's getting _wasted _tonight. On the finest whiskey in the house.

John looks at Dean. "What do you say?" he asks, and reaches out to give him a thump on the knee, a fatherly pat like he's done a million times before, but John's strong, and it's Dean's bad knee, and Dean doesn't quite cover the wince in time, the quick intake of breath.

"Shit," John says, looking instantly repentant, "I didn't—I'm sorry, Dean, I—"

"It's fine," Dean says quickly, "it's fine, don't worry," but there's a flush rising in his cheeks, and Sam can tell he's embarrassed.

"Let's go," Sam says, to break the awkward silence, and John nods, gets to his feet. Dean pockets his cigarettes and then eases his legs over the side of the bed, gropes for his crutches, staunchly not looking at his father, and Sam realizes that the last time he saw John, he could walk. He can't imagine how Dean must be feeling, how his father's feeling, and for a moment, it's like he's back in South Dakota all over again, watching his invincible big brother work just to get up from a chair, like the injury is new all over again. Sam swallows a lump in his throat.

Dean pushes himself up from the bed carefully, has a little trouble because he's stiff from being on his back all day, and John pretends not to watch, but his jaw is tight and his fists are clenched.

Dean makes his way over to the table, props his crutches up and leans his good hip against the wall to shrug into his jacket, then beckons to Sam.

"Gimme the keys," Dean says, and Sam hands them over without protest, even though Dean really shouldn't be driving – but Sam's been drinking, for one thing, and for another, he understands somehow that it's important that Dean get behind the wheel of the Impala right now.

"Where is this place?" Dean asks his father, letting Sam hold the door for him as they pass out into the parking lot.

"Just follow me," John says, leans on his truck and watches as Dean tosses his crutches into the back seat and eases down into the driver's seat.

"Don't take off on us," Dean says, an edge to his voice, slams his door. John climbs into the truck and starts the engine with a rumble.

Dean starts the car and puts her into gear with a slight wince as he works the pedals. "Hey, Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Do me a favor and reach into that glove box and get two pills out of the plastic bag there."

Sam complies, shakes out the pills and looks around for water, but Dean snatches them out of his hand and works his mouth for a second to get some saliva, then swallows them down, one-hands the wheel to get his cigarettes out of his pocket.

"Dude," Sam says, "Dad's here," because he needs to get the conversation rolling somehow.

"Sure looks like it," Dean says, mouths a cigarette from the pack and pats his pockets for his lighter, curses. "Got a light?"

"No."

"Jesus," Dean says, punches in the Impala's lighter with more force that is strictly necessary.

"_Dad's_ here," Sam says again.

"No shit," Dean snaps.

"Well…" Sam goes for the glove compartment again, spins the cap off the flask of whiskey, takes a long pull. "Well. How do you feel?"

"Oh, that's original," Dean says. "You don't watch out, Dr. Phil's gonna sue your ass for copyright infringement."

"Fine," Sam says, slams his hand into the window with so much force that his fist immediately aches. "Fine, you don't wanna talk about it, we won't talk about it. We won't talk about the fact that Dad shows up after four months of looking for him, in Lawrence, after he ditched you at the fucking hospital—"

"Will you shut the fuck up about that?" Dean asks fiercely.

"No," Sam says. "You won't get angry at him for what he did? Fine. I will."

"He did what he had to do."

"Are you brain damaged?" Sam asks. "Are you _high_? Painkillers going to your head? Did you forget being alone in the hospital for four goddamn months? Did you forget having a fucking panic attack because—"

"Sam," Dean says through gritted teeth, "I didn't forget anything, okay? And yeah, I was pissed. But I've had some time to think about it." He jerks the lighter out from the dashboard, presses the glowing end to his cigarette, puffs smoke before saying, "You can blame Dad all you want, but what did you expect him to do? He's right – I _would _have wanted to keep hunting, would have tried to come with him, go after the demon. And whatever you say, no way was Dad gonna stick around while I hung out doing PT or whatever the fuck I was doing, watching daytime fucking television – I woulda slowed him down, fucked shit up, probably screwed him over for any chance of finding the goddamn thing. I don't even – I don't even know why we've been following him, I don't even know why you're still here. You two should just go off together, find this thing, that's what you both want, hell, it's what I want, I'm just holding you both back, I should just—" Dean breaks off, seems to think he's said too much, takes a long drag of his cigarette and bites his lip, hard.

Sam just stares at him disbelievingly, doesn't even know how to respond. "How can you say that?" he asks finally. "How can – Dean – this isn't about the demon, man, it's about _you. _ Yeah, I want to find it. And so does Dad. So do we all. But… it's… you're more important, man. Isn't that what you always tried to tell me? Family's more important than, than revenge, or hunting, or _college…_ So how can… how can you say that what Dad did was okay? _You're _the important thing, not the fucking demon, or, or…"

"Sam," Dean says, and his voice is shaky. "Sam, I'm like… I'm like, this close dude. I can't… I really cannot do this right now. I can't have this conversation with you, or I'm gonna…" he shakes his head, and Sam realizes with horror that he's dangerously close to tears.

"Okay," Sam says, gives him a minute, then has to push it. "But. We're gonna talk about this."

Dean reaches over and turns on the radio. Sam raises the flask again.

To be continued…


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: THANK YOU to everyone who's been reading and reviewing, you don't know how much I appreciate it and how incredibly joyful it makes me. I am so sorry I haven't been responding regularly to reviews, but I'm still not quite done with my finals (thus the lateness of this chapter), and I've been slacking off with the responses because for some reason my computer takes forever to load the response-thingy on . You could always read me on my LJ (roque_clasique) __because I respond to everything there due to technological ease. But know that once finals are done I will be much more forthcoming in expressing my gratitude to you all._

_***  
_

The parking lot of the restaurant is full, and John has to cruise around for a while to find a parking spot, while Dean and Sam slide into the handicapped space right in front of the door.

Dean's glad his father's occupied, because it gives him time to get out of the car without John there to watch him struggle upwards and lean against the Impala while Sam reaches around for his crutches. It's not just that John makes Dean aware of every move his body makes, of the trouble he has getting up, of the way he shifts his weight, how he has to grab onto the car or Sam for support – it's more that Dean is all of a sudden far too aware of how he _used _to move, how he moved when his father last saw him. It's something he thinks about a lot, sure, but it's become an almost absentminded _This sure would be easier if I could walk_ type of thing, and this a completely different story, having his father there to stare, to measure so clearly the gap between the way his body used to work and this parody of a functioning person that he is now.

"You shouldn't even be outta bed," Sam says as Dean pushes himself up from the Impala with a grimace, settles himself on his crutches. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"The hip's getting better," Dean says, which is actually true, the pain less fierce and concentrated and more like the normal ache he'd become accustomed to before a few weeks ago, his range of motion coming back a little. "And Sam, if these aren't extenuating circumstances, I don't know what are."

He tracks the pickup as John weaves in and out of the parking lanes. He had thought, stupidly, like a little kid, that if they could just find their father, everything would be better, magically, would blossom and transform under John's touch. But it sure as hell doesn't feel better – if anything, it feels worse. He realizes that, all this time, however badly he wanted to see his father, he never thought about what it would be like for his father to see _him. _

"Think I have time for a cigarette before the old man gets that thing parked?" he asks Sam.

"No." Sam nudges his chin in the direction of John, across the parking lot, climbing out of the truck.

John raises his eyebrows as he comes towards them. "How come you boys got the money spot, huh?"

"Handicapped parking," Sam says, and Dean winces a little at his brother's confrontational tone, doesn't look at his father.

As they come up to the restaurant, he – and Sam, out of force of habit – takes the ramp instead of attempting the steep cement steps, and he can feel his father's eyes on him as John climbs the stairs, stops at the top to watch them come up the ramp. Jesus, this is like fucking torture, shit he thought he'd come to terms with a long time ago ripped into the light and re-examined, old wounds torn open. He brushes past his father and brother, shoulders the door open and holds it; it's pathetic, he knows, but he needs to feel like he can do _something _right now.

The restaurant is a familiar kind of dark-wooded establishment with moose heads on the walls and beer served in huge German steins, the type of place that's going for rustic but gives itself away with the quality of the silverware, the perfectly modulated glow of the chandeliers. May as well have a neon sign flashing _overpriced. _

The hostess, who's actually a whip-thin teenage boy with too much hair gel, leads them to a booth in the back, half-bows as he backs away after depositing their menus.

Dean can sense John staring again as Sam takes his crutches for him, as Dean slides carefully into the booth, one hand flat on the table, the other gripping the top of the headrest. He and Sam, they've gotten used to these little things (big fucking things), things like ramps, and handicapped parking spots, and a couple extra seconds 'til Dean can get settled in his seat – but it's all new for John, and Dean feels his skin prickle under his father's gaze. It doesn't help that his leg is killing him, a steady, exhausting pound that vibrates through his whole body. The Vicodin will kick in soon, but for now Dean can't help but grimace a little as he tries to get comfortable.

"You okay?" John asks uncertainly.

"Yeah," Dean says, tries not to wince as he shifts to get the weight off his hip.

Their waitress appears, all in black, a little overly eye-linered and concealered for Dean's taste, but she's pretty cute so he gives her the once-over anyway, grins slow as she blushes.

"Hey there, my name's Shawna, I'll be your waitress for the evening, how're you boys doing tonight?" she asks, hip cocked, pencil and pad at the ready.

"Great," John and Sam say in chorus, though she's only really looking at Dean.

_Yeah, _Dean thinks at his father. This, I still got.

"Can I start you off with some drinks?"

"What's your most expensive brand of Scotch?" Sam asks with a small, wicked smile aimed at John.

"Expensive? Uh… we have a lovely Highland Park, aged 18 years, at 11.50 per—"

"I'll take a double, neat," Sam says, dimples up at her as she writes down the order.

"I'm gonna have to see some I.D.," she says apologetically, and Dean and John both snort as Sam flushes a little, digs around in his wallet.

"And for you?" she asks Dean. "What'll it be tonight?"

"I'll take a Stella on tap," he says, cocks an eyebrow. "Unless you can recommend something better."

"We've got a great Free State Brew," she says. "If you ask me, the local stuff's always the best."

"Gotta agree with you, there," he drawls, flicks his eyes up her body a little. "All right, then, Shawna. Gimme a Free State."

She nods, blushing a little, then says, "And… I need to see your I.D., too. Sorry. Policy."

Now it's Sam's turn to laugh as Dean widens his eyes, feels for his wallet.

John orders a Free State as well, cocks his head at Shawna. "Aren't you gonna ask to see _my_ I.D.?"

"Uh," she stutters, "can I see—"

John laughs, flashes his driver's license mockingly. Or, José Rimbaud's driver's license.

"Appetizers?" she squeaks. "Have you had a chance to look at our appetizers?

"Mozzarella sticks," Sam says. "And buffalo wings. And potato skins with extra bacon."

She writes fast to get it down, and Dean's stomach turns at the thought of all that food. He's _hungry_, but he just has no fucking appetite. Jesus, those anti-depressant things better do something about this, because he loves food, he really does, and he misses it. Not to mention the fact that he has to buckle his belt tighter each morning, jaw sharper and sharper under his hand every time he shaves.

"So," Sam says when she's gone, leans forward over the table, and Dean realizes that his brother's already a little tipsy. Like Dean said, extenuating circumstances… but he realizes that he can't think of the last day they passed where Sam didn't drink just a little too much. And Dean's been too wrapped up in his own bullshit to really say anything, 'cause he's a fucking selfish bastard who doesn't deserve any of the shit that Sam does for him every fucking day. And he's supposed to be watching out for the kid. Jesus, he's fucking up left and right. John must be able to see it.

"So," John echoes, folds his arms across the table, matches Sam's stare.

"So, what the hell have you been doing since South Dakota?" Sam asks.

John sighs, runs a hand over his face, and for a moment Dean's sure he's just gonna give the standard John Winchester need-to-know-basis bull, but he says, "I've been tracking the thing. Keep picking up its trail and then losing it – every time I get close it's like the path goes dead, clues go cold. Fucker's smart. Real smart. And –" his eyes flick briefly to Dean, "and it's hard, working alone."

"Well, that was your own fucking choice," Sam snaps, predictably.

"Yeah," John says quietly. "Doesn't make it any easier, though."

Dean occupies himself with shredding his napkin into perfect strips, pretending that his eyes aren't suddenly stinging. He and Sam, they make a great team, but when they first left Stanford, he missed working with his father so badly that at times he wanted to scream at his brother for not being John. Because Dean and John, they have – had – what he and Sam are only just beginning to develop; working off one another, picking up the other's ideas and piecing them together into something right, unspoken conclusions being drawn, simultaneous realizations.

And fighting – jesus, the way they fought, together. He was never afraid when Dad was at his back, confident that his father would never let anything hurt him, that he would never let anything hurt his father. They'll never fight like that again, side by side, and that's something Dean's never really let himself think about before, the loss of that perfect rhythm, the only time when he felt his father was really aware of him, proud of him.

"Tell us what you know," Sam demands.

"Not a hell of a lot," John says. "It's a demon. Goes after women, mainly, but sure doesn't balk at killing anything else."

"So there's been other women killed the same way," Sam says. "On the ceiling."

His father nods, strangely hesitant. "Yeah."

"Do you know why he goes after who he does? Why Mom? Why Jess?"

John shakes his head ruefully. "No idea," he says, but Dean sees a shadow cross his face. He's holding something back. Knows something.

"You know how to kill it?" Sam asks.

"I'm workin' on figurin' that out," John says. "I've got some leads, but… none that have panned out."

Dean rubs his temples, wishes he had brought along that fucking nicorette gum.

John looks at him, opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but just then Shawna appears with their drinks.

"Here you go," she says, carefully lowering glasses and bottles onto their table.

Dean smiles his thanks, leans back in his seat a little, Vicodin finally kicking in.

"Okay, we got the mozzarella sticks right here," she says, placing a grease-stained basket in front of Sam, "and the rest should be along shortly. You guys ready to order?"

They haven't even glanced at their menus.

"Maybe give us a few minutes," John says.

"Sure thing," she perks, gives Dean another quick smile then sashays away.

Sam takes a swallow of the scotch, rubs his throat, and Dean sees, for the first time, the livid bruise around his neck, hidden before by the collar of his jacket and the dim motel lighting.

"Jesus, Sam," he says, reaching to tilt his brother's chin up. "What the fuck happened here?"

"Nothin'," Sam says, "don't worry."

"Sure doesn't look like fuckin' nothing. Looks like something tried to strangle you."

"It did," Sam says shortly, gulps his scotch, reaches for a mozzarella stick.

"What? Why didn't you tell me? You all right?"

"Dude, I'm fine," Sam says, shrugging out from Dean's hands. He shoves the basket of mozzarella sticks towards him. "Eat," he says menacingly.

"He's okay, Dean," John says. "Little bruised, that's all."

Dean squeezes the bridge of his nose, takes a sip of his beer. If he'd've been at the house with Sam, this probably wouldn't have happened. But he was lounging around in bed, no doubt watching that stupid wife swapping show or some other shit. Jesus, does his father think it's always like this? Sam out hunting while Dean stays in the room? _It's just bed rest, _he wants to say, but that sounds lame in and of itself.

The waitress comes back with the rest of their appetizers, holds up her pad and pen questioningly.

"We ready to order?" Sam asks, and John and Dean shrug.

"I'll take the most expensive steak on the menu," Sam says. "With the most expensive sides."

"Okaaaay," Shawna says, lip quirking a little as she writes it down.

"I'll have what he's having," John says calmly, and Sam glares at him.

"I'll take a burger," Dean says. "Cheeseburger." The thought of hacking into a giant slice of bloody steak makes his stomach churn. Wait, seriously? Fuck. There really _is _something wrong with him.

"Fries or mashed potatoes?"

"Uh, whatever. Mashed potatoes." They might go down easier.

Sam glances at him like he's reading his mind, pushes the plate of potato skins towards him in an unspoken command, and Dean takes one grudgingly, chews a bite and manages to swallow it.

Sam finishes his $25 glass of scotch, eyes Dean's beer. "How's that Free State stuff?"

"It's all right," Dean says, gestures for Sam to try it.

"Not bad," Sam says, licking foam off his upper lip. "I'm going to the bathroom. If you see the waitress, order one of those for me?"

"Okay," Dean says, watching as Sam pushes himself up from the table and makes his way towards the back. He's about to be alone with his father for the first time in eight months, and his palms start to sweat, heart starts to lurch. He stares at Sam's retreating form, thinks about excusing himself to go outside and have a smoke, so he doesn't have to be here with –

"Dean," John says, snaps his fingers.

Dean looks at him with some difficulty, pastes a nonchalant look on his face. "Yeah?"

"Son, you said more to that waitress in three minutes than you've said to me in two hours. Is she cuter than me, or somethin'?"

Dean smirks, wants to make a joke but can't quite remember how. Jesus, if he could just smoke a cigarette in here…

"Judging by your message, I thought you'd be a bit more talkative."

Dean winces, rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah…" he says. "Turns out it's a lot easier talking to a message machine."

John's face falls a little. "Dean… I—"

Dean makes a chopping motion with his hand, shakes his head.

"Don't," Dean says, willing Sam to come back. "It's fine, Dad."

"It's _not _fine," John says in frustration. "Just talk to me, would you, goddammit? Jesus, I can't get your brother to shut up, but you won't say a word?"

"What the hell do you want me to say?" Dean explodes, too loud, trying desperately to shake the tension curled around his chest. "I told you I forgive you, it's done, it's fine, _I'm _fine, you're fine, Sam – well, Sammy's fuckin' pissed off, but he'll get over it and he'll be fine, too. What can I say to you, huh? What do you want from me?" He thumps the table involuntarily and the glasses rattle.

John is silent for a moment, then says, "I just want you to talk to me. I thought about you boys a lot, tried to imagine.... I wanna know what it's been like for you, Dean. Hunting. With Sammy, and with…" he gestures awkwardly.

"With my leg fucked up," Dean supplies, all of a sudden completely sick of beating around the bush, sick of feeling ashamed. "Well, we haven't let anyone die yet, so it's goin' all right."

"So you've been… I mean, you and Sam—"

"Yeah, Dad," Dean says. "I've been hunting. I didn't go out today 'cause," he shrugs tightly, shakes his head, "I've got this thing, supposed to stay in bed for a few days. But normally? Yeah. I've been hunting, same as always."

"Except it's not the same as always."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Right."

"How—"

"Look, Dad, if you really wanted to know this shit, you coulda called anytime and asked, okay? I don't think I owe you any explanations. I sure as hell never got any from you." He feels the old anger spark up again, bypass his shame and resignation, and he welcomes it like an old friend, lets it burn through him.

John winces, drags a hand along his jaw. "Dean. Why I took off – it's more complicated than your brother makes it out to be."

"Did I just sprout a mop off my head? Do I look like Sam to you? I get why you left. I even get why you didn't tell me, cause you're right, I would have wanted to come with you, keep hunting. Thing is, I was too fucked up to do anything about it, so even if you'da told me I wouldn'ta been able to follow you, but okay, I get that you didn't want to take that risk. Sorry to fuck it all up, 'cause I came after you anyway, but—"

"Dean," John says intently, leaning forward. "I didn't ditch you just 'cause I thought you'd slow me down. That's part of it, yeah, but only because you make me vulnerable in the first place – if I'm with you, or Sam, I'm that much weaker, that much more likely to make a stupid move based on emotion instead of tactics. And now, with, with, now that you—"

"Now that I can't walk," Dean prompts, "go ahead, you can say it, I'm not sensitive."

"Now that you can't get around like you could, I'd – _we'd ­–_ be even more susceptible. Christ, when I left you, I thought I – I really thought I had it. Had the thing cornered. Thought I'd get the job _done, _over with, finally, after all these years, and then I'd come back and get you, figure out where to go from there. But it didn't work like that. And then – then it was too late to go back, and then you were at Bobby's, and I – I didn't want you—"

"Didn't want me hunting, right, you've said that," Dean says sarcastically. "But we've _been _hunting all this time, and you _knew _that, so why couldn't you have—"

"I didn't know you boys were hunting 'til Bobby told me about a month back," John says. "I knew you were lookin' for me, but I swear to god I had no idea you were hunting. If I'd have known…"

"What," Dean says, "you woulda shown up sooner?"

"Maybe," John says. "Yes. No. I don't know! Dean, tell you the truth, I'm shootin' blind here, Dean. Playin' it by fucking ear. I don't know what to do! I don't."

"You mean you don't know what to do with _me,_" Dean snaps. "'Cause what the fuck are you supposed to do with—" he stops dead when he sees Sam, standing uncertainly before their table, half-full beer in hand.

"How long you been standing there?" Dean demands.

"Like, five seconds, dude," Sam says, placating. "I stopped at the bar and this guy would not stop talking to me." He slides into the booth, movements a little clumsy with alcohol, his bony hip slamming into Dean's bad right side with enough force to make Dean suck in a breath of air through his teeth, bend over a little.

"Sorry," Sam says, pats him on the back and then stuffs a buffalo wing in his mouth. He's _used_ to it, hard to avoid knocking Dean the wrong way sometimes, and they both take it in stride, no big deal. _This, _this is what Dean wants from John, not the concerned look his father's throwing his way right now.

"You okay?" John asks, and Dean can feel his nostrils flare.

"I'm _fine,_" he snarls. God_dammit _he needs a cigarette, feels crazy, head going in a million directions at once. He just needs a minute to focus his thoughts, calm down a little, get some nicotine flowing through his blood.

_No_, Winchester. He squares his jaw. He can get through this dinner without a goddamn cigarette. First time his family's been together in four fucking years, and goddammit, all they do is fight. He just wants to have a conversation that doesn't involve someone yelling, Sam's harsh voice, his father's steely replies.

"Hey," Dean says, does everything he can to modulate his tone, make it peaceful. "Dad. You wanna know what it's been like, hunting?"

"Yeah," John says, "I do." Sam rolls his eyes, crunches hard on a mozzarella stick.

"Well, we can tell you some pretty weird fuckin' stories," Dean says. "You ever seen a Sauerkraut?"

"Schrekenhaut," Sam corrects automatically, just like Dean knew he would.

"The hell is that?" John asks, leans back with a half smile.

"Yeah, that's pretty much what we wanted to know," Dean says, launches into the story, pauses in places he knows Sam'll want to jump in, and at first his brother resists, but his geek brain can't take all the errors Dean's making, and he starts butting in as soon as Dean claims it's an Irish monster ("Listen to the name, you jerk, does that sound Irish to you?").

This, this has always been something Dean could resort to if he couldn't take the sniping between his father and brother anymore – hunt talk. Innocuous, easy-to-relate-to storytelling. And Dean is a master at this kind of story, can make even the simplest hunt seem interesting and ridiculous.

John soaks it up, laughs in all the right places, offers suggestions on what they should have done, starts telling a couple of his own stories, and Dean can feel Sam's shoulders un-tense beside him.

The food comes and they order more beer, Sam gets another $25 double scotch, but the smirk he gives his father is more toned-down, less malice and more mockery. They both know the money doesn't really matter – it just means John's gonna have to toss one of his credit cards. But Sam's always needed something to make him feel like he's in control, got the upper hand.

There's silence for a while, as John and Sam tuck into their dinners, but it's a companionable we're-men-focused-on-food silence, not the frigid emptiness that Dean's always loathed. Sam reaches out a hand and rattles Dean's plate, and Dean sucks it up and gets down a couple bites of mashed potatoes, some of the burger. The food hits his empty stomach kind of hard, and he has to pause, drink some beer, breathe, before he continues, gets through about half the burger by the time Sam's mopping up the extra gravy on his empty plate.

"Not hungry?" John asks, and Dean shrugs.

"He's never hungry," Sam says darkly, and John looks at him.

"The meds," Dean says, waving his hand, sticks a forkful of gluey mashed potatoes in his mouth and chases them with a swig of beer.

" 'Snot," Sam mutters, and he's drunk, but he's not drunk enough to say anything else.

Dean leans back a little, hopes to god that Sam doesn't want dessert, because if he doesn't smoke a cigarette soon, he might start crying. No joke.

"Can I interest you boys in some desert?" Shawna asks brightly.

"Strawberry shortcake," Sam says, tongue a little thick in his mouth. "You got strawberry shortcake?"

"We have a strawberry-rhubarb pie with ice cream," Shawna suggests.

"That," Sam nods. "We wannit."

Okay, that's about enough. "Sam, scoot over," Dean says. "I'm goin' outside for a minute."

"Huh?" John says as Sam rolls his eyes, moves down the length of the booth. Dean pushes himself up a wince, grips onto Sam's shoulder for balance as he grabs his crutches, doesn't look at his father but doesn't look down, either, because fuck it, this is who he is, and it's not like his father doesn't already know. It's no secret.

"Where you goin'?" John asks.

"Be back in five," Dean says, starts to maneuver himself down the crowded aisle.

"The hell is he going?" he hears his father ask, hears Sam's answering bark of bitter laughter. He hopes to god they don't get into it while he's gone.

He's not used to smoking openly in front of his father, and it makes him vaguely uncomfortable, can't help looking around before he lights his cigarette, leaned up against the wall of the restaurant. It makes him nervous, John and Sam alone in there, 'cause they're either gonna start screaming at each other again, or they're gonna start talking about What Comes Next, and Dean's not sure which'll be worse.

Sam may butt heads with John, but it's only because they're more similar than either of them will ever realize. Same goddamn stubborn streak, same inability to see reason from anyone but themselves. Sometimes from Dean, if he plays it right. And now… now, that they've both lost the woman they love to the same demon, now that they're both bent on the same revenge… And hell, Dean wants to find the damn thing, too, spent his whole fucking life building up to it, it was _his _mother, after all… But Sam and his father, with their intensity, with their drive to find this thing… if they get to talking… there's only one conclusion they're gonna make. And Dean, he can't blame them, though his chest seizes up at the thought of being alone, again.

He takes a long drag, closes his eyes, shifts so he's leaning more weight off his bad side. He's pretty sure they'll talk to him first, before they take off – at least, he's sure Sam will, Sam, with that guilty, hangdog look he gets… Maybe they'll let him stick around, do some research, small-scale hunts. No. Wishful thinking. He's a liability and he knows it, John just said it, and Sam knows it too. They'll never let him come. And he won't go after them, not this time. He's learned his lesson.

He brushes a hand absently over his eyes, isn't surprised to find that he's teared up a little – these days, he's pretty much the biggest fucking crybaby in the world. But what the hell is he gonna do, after they go? Head up to Bobby's? No, that's too much like defeat. Keep hunting on his own. Little stuff. Do some exorcisms. He's hunted alone before, and he doesn't much like it, but it's preferable to the alternative, which is basically suicide, since he doesn't know what the hell else he'd do. Get a job? Fat chance. He knows himself to well to think he could stay in one place for enough time to keep a job. Besides, he'd probably get fired for sleeping with the boss's wife or something. Huh. Job'd be worth it for that story, come to think of it.

He finishes his cigarette, pretends for a second like he's not gonna smoke another, then gives in and shakes one from the pack, ducks his head to get it lit. The wind is cold, goes through his jeans and curls its fingers around his goddamn fucking fucked-up leg. _Fuck. _He presses a hand deep into his eye sockets, wills them dry, and they listen, for once. He tries to find a stance that doesn't send that sharp pain up his leg, can't, wonders who the hell designed a restaurant without a freaking bench outside. The world is against smokers. And dudes on crutches.

The door opens and, to his surprise, it's his dad and Sam, pulling their coats tighter against the wind, clutching two Styrofoam containers.

Dean takes the cigarette out of his mouth, breathes a guilty breath of smoke – it's clear it's his second, only just started. He said five minutes. It's been more.

"We got dessert to go," Sam says unsteadily. "An'… an' the resta your burger."

"Thanks," Dean says, takes a drag, doesn't move, gauging their faces, trying to figure out if they've talked.

"Come on," Sam says. He doesn't look anything but kind of drunk.

They pause at the Impala, Dean tossing his crutches in the back to lean on the roof, look at his father over the top of the car. He pulls on his cigarette, winces a little as Sam climbs in and slams the door too hard.

"You smoke those things in the car?" John asks. "I didn't give her to you so you could ruin her."

"Where you stayin' tonight?" Dean asks.

"Got a room at your motel," John admits. "Second floor."

Dean nods, hesitates.

"We'll talk tomorrow," John says, like he knows what Dean wants to ask. _What now?_

"All right," Dean says.

"Hey," John says, comes around the hood to where Dean's propped up.

"What?"

"I'm – it's good to see you, son."

Dean eases a lungful of smoke out into the air, looks over the parking lot. "Good to see you, too."

John moves forward like he might hug him, but Dean raises his cigarette to his mouth, arm crossed over his body in a pre-emptive block. He can't do that. Not right now. John nods a little.

"See you back at the motel."

"See you," Dean says, watches as his father goes over to the truck.

He lowers himself into the driver's seat, looks over to where Sam's already taken out the flask of whiskey, is sitting back with his eyes closed.

"Go easy, killer," Dean says, reaches and takes the flask, swallows, grimaces, screws the cap back on.

"Nothin's easy," Sam says mournfully, and Dean ruffles his hair a little.

"No shit, dude."

"I wanna hate 'im," Sam admits, eyes still closed, "but I don't."

"Good," Dean says. "He's our father."

"Whatever, man. He's a jackass."

"Maybe," Dean says, starts the car. He's looking forward to climbing back into that fucking bed, putting a pillow over his head, passing the fuck out. But he has a feeling he's not going to get much sleep tonight.

"Hey," Sam says. "You wanna…" he pauses. "You wanna see the old house?"

"What, now?"

"We're inna car."

"That's true."

"Les' jus' drive by it. I want… I wanna look at it with you."

Dean glances at his brother. "Okay."

They cruise through the back streets of Lawrence, and Dean wonders if things would look more familiar in the daylight. Probably not. He was four, for chrissakes. Even with his memory, which is, he'll admit it, exceptional, how much could he really remember?

Except… oh.

"You remember it?" Sam asks, looking up at the house.

"Yeah," Dean breathes, suddenly overwhelmed. For the first time in more than fifteen years, he remembers what his mother smelled like, the hand lotion she used to wear, the hardwood floors of their house, a red toy truck he would send flying under the couch and holler his head off until his father would retrieve it for him. Jesus, the things that stick in a kid's mind.

"Hey," Sam says, jars Dean out of his reverie. "Dean, what's that? What is that?"

Dean squints in the direction of Sam's finger, up towards the second floor window. There's a figure there, hands on the window, what's she doing? "It's…"

"It's Jenny," Sam says, and his voice is suddenly sober. "_Fuck, _get the fuck out of the car, now! We gotta get in there!"

"What? Sam, we—"

"That, right there?" Sam says, throwing open the door. "That's how I saw Jenny in my nightmare." He slams the door shut, rushes around to the back, and Dean, still skeptical, peers up at the window again.

Oh, _fuck._ She's screaming.

To be continued…


	8. Chapter 8

By the time Dean's managed to get himself up and out of the car, Sam's halfway across the lawn to the house, weaving just a little.

"Sam," Dean shouts, hustles as fast as he can after his brother, mind moving wildly, taking inventory of the situation. He can feel the weight of his gun tucked into the back of his jeans, and he's got a flask of holy water in his jacket pocket, and he can see the sawed-off dangling from Sam's hand, but _fuck _they're completely unprepared and Sam's drunk and they have no idea what they're dealing with and—

Dean makes an executive decision, pauses to wrestle his phone out of his pocket and hit his Dad's number, tucks it between his chin and shoulder as he starts for the door again.

John answers on the first ring, and this weren't a _fucking emergency, _Dean might have time to marvel at that, but as it is he just barks, "We got a situation at the old house and we need you here _now,_" waits long enough to hear his father's clipped "I'm on my way," and then he lifts his chin and lets the phone drop with a clatter onto the walkway, crutches past it; if everything goes right he'll pick it up on the way out. _And if it goes wrong, you ain't comin' out. _

He hauls himself up the porch stairs faster than he would have thought possible – Sam used to joke that Dean's adrenaline is ten times more potent than normal people's, and Dean thinks, absently, somewhere in the part of his mind that isn't busy freaking the fuck out, that his little brother was right. Dean has done some crazy shit when this feeling pumps through him, enervates every limb with a strength and speed that propels him up the five steps and into the house in time to see Sam start up the stairs at the end of the hall.

"Sam," Dean shouts again, and this time Sam pauses a fraction of a second, turns, gives his brother a panicked stare from underneath his bangs, and then keeps moving up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Dean doesn't hesitate at the foot of the steps, just grits his teeth and moves up them without stopping, fast as he can, adrenaline still pushing him onward with a crazy intensity that he knows he's gonna feel in the morning.

Sam's in the hallway, ear pressed up against a door.

"Stand back!" he's yelling, backs up and turns to see Dean. "Jenny's in there," he says, "kids're down the hall, can you—" doesn't finish his sentence, just throws a kick at the door that has it splintering but not opening, and Dean ducks past him, throws open the first door he sees. A screaming toddler is standing upright in his crib, fists clenched on the bars, and Dean drops a crutch and scoops the kid up in his free arm, moves back into the hall, going a little slower but not by much. He hears wood crack as Sam pounds the door with his foot again – gotta teach that kid how to roundhouse – and behind the break of wood he hears a little girl's voice screaming.

He follows the sound, shoulders open a blue door – Sam's nursery, the calm part of his brain says – sees a little girl sitting up in her bed, yelling her head off.

"Come on," he says urgently, "Sari, right? Let's go, Sari!"

She looks at him fearfully for a moment, then throws herself out of bed and latches onto his good leg.

"Come _on,_" Dean says again, trying to shake her off, starts herding her down the hall, Richie clutching his neck tightly, Sam wrestling to break down the last of the door.

"Okay," Dean says as they reach the top of the stairs, because no way can he get down these with a baby in his arms, "Sari, I need you to take your brother outside as fast as you can, and don't look back."

She stares at him for a moment, lip trembling.

"_Now, _Sari, go!"

She reaches her arms up and he lets Richie down into the them, and with a last, tremulous look, Sari dashes down the stairs just as Jenny tumbles out of the door.

"My kids," she gasps, eyes wild, turns to move down the hall. Sam grabs her arm.

"They're downstairs," Dean says, "Get—"

"Are you—"

"Get the fuck _outta _here_, _Sam," Dean snarls, and his brother pushes Jenny ahead of him and down the stairs. Dean leans on the railing, grips his one crutch, makes it down as Sam and Jenny dart through the door. He curses as he sees Sam press Jenny forward and turn around, move back into the house, and then he sees his brother get slammed by a flying chair, struggle to his feet.

"Get _out,_" Dean roars, and Sam hesitates, darts through the doorway, turns back to look for his brother – and the door swings closed.

Dean has time to let out an "Oh, _fuck_," and then invisible hands are grabbing him by the ankles, sending him to the floor with a thud that echoes through his body, head smacking against the wooden floorboards. He has enough reflexes so that he lands more or less on his good side, but still, his hip hits hard enough that he almost blacks out for a second, just from pain alone.

He slides backwards through the living room and into the kitchen where he's hurled upwards like a rag doll and crashed into the table with bone-rattling force, then pulled up again and tossed into a set of cabinets that splinter under his weight. He struggles, grapples for his gun, for the cabinets, anything, something to tether him down, give him some leverage, but his hands meet empty air and he's pulled upright again, slower this time, like whatever's got him is gearing up for something, then he's slammed against the wall, stars exploding through his vision as his head lets out a sickening _crack. _He's held to the wall, but nothing else happens, almost like whatever's holding him there has been checked, somehow.

Somewhere, distantly, he hears someone holler his name, and as his eyes clear he sees a bright light coming towards him. Someone? Something. Something made of fire. Something… _good. _

His father appears in the door, Sam behind him, takes in the situation with a flicker of his eyes and raises his shotgun.

"No," Dean finds himself gasping, "It's not – it's not the –" gives up on speech as the fire begins to fade and he can make out a figure.

It's a woman, a pretty woman with a kind face, long blond hair, white nightgown, familiar in a way that tugs at something inside him. He blinks as she moves towards him, eyes sliding to his father and brother, and all of a sudden he _knows. _Knows from the way John goes completely still, the way he drops the rifle with a slow clatter, takes a halting step forward like his knees won't hold him anymore.

"Mary?" he chokes out.

Dean wants to say _Mom, _but the words won't come, blocked by something in his throat. She stops, raises her hand like she's going to touch him, then drops her arm with a harsh cry.

"Dean," she says, a voice he recognizes from faint words whispered in his head for twenty-two years, lullabies and reassurances like a half-remembered song. Her eyes fill with tears, and she puts the back of a fist to her mouth, lips pressed together like she's holding in a sob, and he feels his own eyes well up in response. "Dean," she says again, "_Dean,_" and then she's turning away from him.

"Mary," John says, steps forward, reaches towards her but doesn't touch. Dean's never seen his father look like this, a terrible, wild vulnerability, tears streaming unchecked down his face, jaw trembling, shoulders quivering, and his wife sways where she's standing.

"John, baby," she says, voice breaking. "Our boys. Our boys, our boys, my _babies_, John, how…"

"Mom?" Sam says, like he's just putting it together, and he looks about four, expression all bewildered and hurt like Dean's just given him a time-out.

"Sam," Mary says, her expression shifting, and Dean feels his stomach drop out through his feet at the look of despair that she casts on her youngest son, tenderness and love and grief and _despair_. "Sam, I'm so sorry, I…"

"Sorry? For… for what? Mom?"

But Mary has turned away, takes a few steps into the center of the room and lifts her chin towards the ceiling.

"_You,_" she says, voice clear, authoritative, and Dean remembers, stupidly, suddenly, the time he poured black paint on their white couch when he was four, and how, at five, how much he _missed _the way his mother used to yell at him. "You," Mary says again in her no-nonsense mother voice. "Get out of my house and let _go _of my son."

Then, with no warning, she bursts into flames.

John lets out a strangled cry, more raw than anything Dean's ever heard from his father, and he steps towards her as the flames increase, jet higher towards the ceiling.

Dean feels the pressure holding him to the wall build, press onto him until he's gasping for air, and then suddenly, abruptly, the flames flare once and disappear, and Dean's sent plummeting to the floor, bad leg crumpling beneath him, good leg not much better.

Sam darts over to him immediately, but John stays where he's standing, one hand fisted in the flannel over his heart. Doesn't look as if he'll ever move again.

"Dean," Sam is saying, "dude, talk to me, you okay?"

" 'M fine," Dean says, batting Sam's hands away with a groan, because if he lets his brother touch him it means Sam's going to try to haul him to his feet, and he needs a couple seconds before that's gonna be a possibility. "Jenny and the kids, they all right?"

"They're fine, they're outside," Sam says, crouched next to him, one hand patting him down, looking for injuries. Dean notices blearily that Sam is favoring one arm, cradling it against his chest. "You're bleeding man, your head, you—" he stops. "Dean."

"Wha…"

"Was that… was that Mom?"

"Yeah, dumbass," Dean says, belatedly realizes that his brother's crying and that _dumbass _maybe isn't the most sensitive thing he could say. Then he realizes that the neck of his own shirt is soaked, and he's pretty sure those are tears coursing down his cheeks, so he figures it's okay. "Gemme up."

Sam leans down, offers his uninjured hand, but it's John who grasps Dean's hands, puts a steadying shoulder under his own, hauls him up inch by painful inch.

Dean is gasping a little by the time it's done, adrenaline gone and _hurt _flowing through every bruised and battered part of his body, and he can't help himself, leans hard into John, lets his father wrap an arm around his shoulder and hold him up.

"Where's your crutches?" Sam asks, and Dean barks a slightly hysterical laugh.

"I dunno," Dean says. "One's upstairs. The other's… I dunno."

Sam disappears, and Dean sags against his father, wonders if he's going to pass out, wonders if it's over, if the spirit has disappeared with the spirit of his mother.

His _mother…_ but he's not gonna think about that right now, gonna save that until he's somewhere that isn't _here._

"Jesus," John mumbles into his hair, and Dean can tell that his father's still crying a little. Can't really think about that, either.

Sam reappears, holding a crutch in his good hand, and Dean sees that it's been ripped in half along the line where the screws hold it together.

"Fuck," Dean says, and almost laughs, 'cause really, that's just the cherry on the fucked-up cake.

"I gotcha," John says. "Can you—?"

"Yeah," Dean says, "just," tries to take a step, but John doesn't know how to maneuver him, and it's awkward, difficult. Dean stumbles a little and John nearly falls over trying to catch him.

"Dad," Sam says, almost like everything's normal and Sam's sixteen and exasperated with his family, and he elbows John aside to take his place. Dean slings an arm over his shoulder and leans on him gratefully, because Sammy's done this a thousand times before and they know how to move together, know each other's pace as Sam supports his brother, gets him slowly out of the house and into the cold night air. John follows behind, jaw clenched, holding the useless crutch like maybe if he squeezes hard enough, it'll do something.

Jenny and her kids are huddled on the grass, shivering in one little bundle.

"God," she says, looks like she wants to come forward but doesn't want to let go of her children. "Are you – what the hell – are you guys all right? Is he all right?"

Dean raises his head, shoots her his best confident, winning smile, and it must not look as shitty as he feels, because her face relaxes just a fraction and she almost smiles back.

"Who—"

"Dean," Dean says. "Dean Winchester. Nice to meet you. Wish it wasn't under these circumstances."

"Another Winchester?"

"We travel in packs," John says. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I think we'd better get my boy here some medical attention."

"I am _not _going back in that house," Jenny says emphatically.

"We're pretty sure it's safe," Sam says, "but why don't you get a hotel? You have a cellphone? Someone you can call?"

Jenny nods slowly.

"That'd be good," Sam says. "Good."

"Thank you," Jenny says. "Will – are –"

"We'll be back tomorrow, check the place out," John says, and Sam tugs Dean forward, to Dean's great unhappiness, because every step pretty much feels like torture.

"You still drunk, Sammy?" Dean asks as his brother lowers him into the backseat.

"Probably," Sam says, scrubs one hand over his face. "I don't fuckin' know."

"Your arm okay?" Dean asks, remembering, sees that his brother's still favoring it.

"Think I dislocated my shoulder again," Sam says miserably.

"I'll drive," John says. "We'll come back for my truck tomorrow."

Dean tries to get comfortable in the backseat but gives it up as a lost cause, settles for panting carefully through what might not be broken ribs, but they sure as hell hurt as if they were. Probably just bruised. He does a quick inventory of his body, decides that nothing's really wrong except for the fact that he feels like he's been bludgeoned with a meat tenderizer.

"You okay?" John asks, eyes flicking to Dean in the rearview.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Could go for some popcorn. But otherwise, I'm fine."

John drives like he doesn't believe him, too fast and with a careful precision that means he's worried.

"Seriously," Dean says as his father runs a red light. "I'm like, barely concussed."

But it's still a big fuckin' effort to get out of the car, and he leans into Sam as his father fumbles open their motel room door.

Sam lowers Dean carefully to the bed, and Dean gropes around on his nighttable, finds his Vicodin and those freakin' lollipops, swallows down a couple pills and unwraps an Actiq, nestles it in his cheek. _Really _needs a fucking cigarette, but that comes second to the agony that is his body right now.

He props himself up against the headboard, goes limp and tries to breathe through it as his father comes over to him.

"We gotta take a look at you," he says.

"I'm fine," Dean says. "Just got tossed around a little. Nothin' major, swear to god. But you should fix Sammy's shoulder."

John looks at Sam, who's sitting on the chair, cradling his arm.

"Dislocated?" he asks, and Sam nods.

Dean closes his eyes as John resets the shoulder, wishes he could block out his brother's restrained gasp of pain.

"Want a lollipop?" he asks Sam, almost laughs at his father's confusion.

"No," Sam says. "Wouldn't say no to some of that Vicodin, though."

John binds Sam's arm to his chest in a makeshift, ace-bandage sling, then gives his son a painkiller from Dean's proffered bottle, face unreadable.

"So," Dean says, relaxes a fraction as he feels the Actiq start to take effect. "Uh, mom."

"She said she was sorry," Sam says intently, hand straying to the bottle of Jack on the table. "What did she mean?"

"Goddamned if I know," John says. "Look, we don't know if – that could have been anything in there, a, an echo, or—"

"She got that thing offa me," Dean says, watches his brother take a swig of the whiskey. "Hey," he says. "You just took a bunch of painkillers, dude."

"Hypocrite," Sam says, and there isn't much Dean can say to that, because yeah, he mixes alcohol and opiates on a pretty regular basis.

"She got it offa me," he says again, to his father. "It was Mom."

"Yeah," John says softly. "She did."

Dean turns away, tries not to remember the expression John wore as he gazed at Mary, the stark longing and deep, deep grief that he can still see etched on his father's features. Can trace where they've carved lines in his face.

They sit in silence for a moment, and then Dean says, "I'm gonna fuckin' _kill _Missouri. She told us that place was clean. Sam's a better psychic than she is, for chrissake."

Sam freezes for a moment and Dean realizes what he's said, and is it just his imagination or does John freeze, too? Then his face goes blank again, and Dean and Sam relax.

"She's usually right," John says. "Must have been something blocking her."

"Maybe," Dean says, twirls the Actiq stick in his cheek, sucks on it for a moment.

"Is that… is that candy?" John asks.

"Yup," Dean says. "Grape-flavored." He gives it another swirl then drops it into the wastebasket, trades it for a cigarette from the pack on the night table. The painkiller's doing its job, and he doesn't feel so much like he's been mishandled by a bulldozer.

He smokes silently as his father and brother stare at the floor, Sam drinking straight from the bottle until John reaches out a hand, takes a swig of his own, then caps it decisively and puts it just out of Sam's reach.

"I'm goin' to bed," John says. "I'm wakin' you boys up at nine."

"We have an alarm clock," Dean says. "Think we can probably manage."

"I'm waking you up," John repeats, standing, shoves his hands in his pockets. "Then we'll have breakfast and. Talk."

Dean doesn't like the sound of that, raises his cigarette nervously to his lips.

John comes over to the bed, hovers for a moment. "You sure you're okay?"

"Dad," Dean says, tilts his head a little so he doesn't breathe smoke in his father's face. "I've had worse."

"Right." John reaches out a tentative hand, brushes a thumb over Dean's eyebrow. "You've got a cut here. Not too bad. Could use cleaning."

"I'll take care of it," Dean says, unnerved by the gentleness with which his father touches him. As if he can read Dean's mind, John jerks his hand back, stuffs it back in his pocket. Dean pulls in a bruised lungful of smoke, winces a little.

"See you tomorrow, then."

" 'Night."

" 'Night, Dad," Sam says, voice slurred with exhaustion and alcohol, and he blinks up at his father sleepily as John puts a heavy hand briefly on Sam's head.

"G'night, boys." John closes the door quietly behind him.

Dean puts out his cigarette, lights another one, limbs heavy. Sam reaches for the bottle again.

"You keep drinkin', you're gonna pass out," Dean says. "Can't believe you pulled off a hunt like that."

"Soon's the adrenaline hit, I was pretty much sober," Sam says, and Dean wonders if maybe Winchester adrenaline has some special power.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Don't know how the fuck I got up those stairs so damn fast."

"Your crutches," Sam says. "Fuck."

"Cane's in the back of the Impala," Dean says. "That'll do, for now."

"Not like you're gonna be getting up," Sam says fiercely. "Bed rest."

Dean coughs a laugh. "Don't think I'm gonna much mind it, tomorrow."

"I didn't recognize her," Sam says suddenly.

"Me neither," Dean admits. "Not at first. We were little, dude; you couldn't even hold your freakin' head up by yourself. And all we've got is pictures. Like, three pictures."

"D'you know she was so pretty? I didn't know."

"Yeah. I knew."

"Sometimes," Sam starts vehemently, takes a pull from the bottle, wipes his mouth. "Sometimes I'm really fuckin' jealous of you, Dean. For those four years."

Dean swirls smoke in his mouth, lets it out slow. "I know, dude. It's – it's not fair."

Sam tightens his grip on the bottle, shifts in his seat. "But…" he says after a moment. "But I'm glad you had them. Glad one of us could… I dunno… be proof that we were just people, once. That she… really existed."

Dean swallows hard and they don't say anything else, and then Sam stands, hand clasped around the elbow of his bad arm. "I'm gonna brush my teeth."

"Okay."

He disappears into the bathroom and Dean lets out a soft groan, works the heel of his hand deep into his eye sockets. He knows what Sam means. Their mother's scarcely a real person, in their family, reduced to a symbol and their father's dream. Seeing her tonight, seeing the house, hearing her voice… Dean was reminded that she's not just some untouchable icon, sacred and beautiful, but not really his. But she _was. _She was his mother. Yelled at him, sometimes, even, got annoyed with him. His mother. And Sam… Sam doesn't have that certainty.

He finishes his cigarette, puts it out slowly. Maybe that's why his brother's always longed for normal. Because it was just a dream for him, a glorious, unreachable dream, just like their mother. Perfect and sweet and everything their lives never were. But Dean, Dean had normal, had a mother, for four years, and normal's never held the same sway it's held over Sam, all this time.

He wishes, for one second, that he could give his memories to his brother, and then realizes that, no, he wants them. Wants them for himself. Maybe the one thing he wouldn't give Sam if Sam asked. And maybe that makes him selfish, makes him a shitty person, but he still wouldn't give them up.

But _god, _he wishes he could share.

Sam comes out, eases down to his boxers and looks at Dean.

"Y'need to go t'the bathroom, or somethin'? Need help with…" he waves his hand, effectively encompassing anything Dean might need to do.

"I'm just gonna sleep in my clothes," Dean says. "Too fuckin' tired to move."

"Okay." Sam moves to the bed, stretches out with a groan.

"How's the shoulder?"

"Fuckin' hurts. How long does it take for this shit to kick in again?"

"For you? 'Bout twenty-five minutes. Give it another ten, and you'll be good."

" 'Kay."

"You're gonna have to wear a sling, dude," Dean warns. "For at least a few weeks. That's the second time this month you dislocated that shoulder."

"I know."

"That ain't good."

"I _know._"

Dean eases himself down onto the bed, is a little cold but can't bring himself to get under the covers. He flicks off the light and closes his eyes, feels exhaustion wash over him and tug him downwards.

" 'S weird, having Dad back," Sam says just as Dean thinks he's about to fall asleep. "Weird 'n' not weird."

"Yeah."

Dean thinks about the soft touch of his father's fingers on his eyebrow, of the hand he put on Sam's head, and he feels a cold thrill run through him.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"You think he's gonna be here tomorrow?"

There's a silence, then Sam says, "I don't know."

"Yeah," Dean says, shifts a little, closes his eyes.

It's a while before he finally hears his brother's breathing even out, slow and peaceful, safe.

Then, and only then, can Dean fall asleep.

To be continued…


	9. Chapter 9

Sam is woken by the uncomfortable sensation of cold water droplets hitting his face, and a hissed, "Sam! Hey, Sammy!"

He cracks an eye open, sees Dean across in his own bed, fingers dipped in the water glass, poised to flick again. He's got an Actiq stick tucked in his cheek and is propped against the headboard like his body's not doing much to hold him up.

"What?" Sam croaks, head and shoulder throbbing in a horrible rhythm.

"How's your shoulder?"

"_Hurts,_" Sam moans. "That why you fuckin' woke me up?"

Dean makes an apologetic face, screws his nose up. "No."

Sam waits, eyes closed against the light in the room. Christ, he's hungover. He can feel the grogginess left from the Vicodin, not to mention the alcohol.

"I gotta take a piss," Dean says finally. "I'm sorry, dude, it's just, I can't –"

"It's okay," Sam says, pushes himself up with his good arm, lets out a long groan. "All right, come on."

Dean needs all the help he can get this morning, panting a little in Sam's ear as he pulls him upright.

"You good?" Sam asks when Dean's on his feet.

"Yeah," Dean says, tongues the painkiller into the other cheek, "yeah, let's go."

Sam walks him to the bathroom slowly, gets the door open while Dean leans against the wall. "You need me to…" Sam asks awkwardly, and Dean gives him a horrified glare.

'Dude, _no._ That's what they've got those freakin' bars for."

"Right."

Dean closes the door behind him, and Sam heads back to his bed. He checks his cell: 8:37. His shoulder's killing him, so he looks over to Dean's nighttable for the bottle of Vicodin, sitting next to his, what'd Dean say they were for? His bone-density meds, and Sam sees with relief that the Vicodin's still open; he won't have to wrestle one-handed with the cap. Swallows one down and chugs a glass of water.

The bathroom door swings open and Dean leans out, jeans still on, but shirtless.

"Hey," he says self-consciously as Sam stares at the bruises covering his torso, mottling his chest and sides. His good left side is the worst, like Dean managed to maneuver the way he fell, but Sam can see the swell of a black and blue over the crest of his bad hip.

"Hey," Dean says again, snaps his fingers. "Quit it."

"Sorry, it's just… you look…"

"Tie-dyed. I know."

"Yeah. You take your ibuprofin?"

"Yeah. And now I think I'm gonna take a shower. Uh, you mind passing me a pair of clean boxers?"

Sam eyes the jumble of Dean's clothes warily, strewn around in the corner next to his duffle. "How do I know what's clean?"

"The ones with the starfish," Dean says. "Those're clean."

Sam finds them crumpled up under a few questionable-smelling t-shirts, holds them up with thumb and forefinger. "These?"

"Yeah."

He hands them to his brother, hesitates. "You gonna be okay in there?"

"There's a seat, Sam," Dean says, trying not to sound exasperated and failing. "I'm gonna sit down. And remember those bar things I mentioned a second ago? Still there."

"Okay, okay," Sam says. "Hot water'll probably feel good on those bruises."

"That's what I was thinking," Dean says, closes the door again. His voice is just slow enough that Sam knows the painkillers have kicked in, and he thinks maybe he should try one of those lollipop things, because goddamn, his shoulder just will not quit. Not to mention his head, which is his own damn fault, shouldn't have drank so much last night.

His eyes stray to the mostly-empty bottle of Jack on the table, and he thinks maybe a little hair of the dog might do him some good. Just one drink, clear his head, stop the pounding.

He finds himself glancing nervously at the bathroom door as he pours the whiskey, which is stupid, because it's not like he's doing anything wrong, just an age-old hangover cure. But nevertheless, he gulps it down quickly, shoves the glass to the side and goes to put on his jeans, wriggle awkwardly into a long-sleeved overshirt, the empty arm flapping at his side. He wonders if there's anyplace around here where he can get a sling; it's a hassle having his arm taped up to his chest like this.

He sits down at the table and checks his watch again: 8:46. Wonders if John will come to wake them at nine, like he'd said.

He pours another drink, because there's not much left in the bottle and he may as well finish what's there, swallows fast, head feeling a little better. He's really not looking forward to going back to the house today. He knows they have to, make sure everything's clean, maybe bring Missouri over there – though fat lot of good she did last time – but he just wants to get the hell out of Lawrence. Move on.

Sam sighs, rubs his sore shoulder a little. He doesn't know what the hell's going to happen, with Dad in the picture, now, but he wonders if he could convince his brother to take a break. Just a week or two, holed up somewhere, maybe Bobby's, maybe some motel in a little town with nothing supernatural around. Somewhere cheap, 'cause they're pretty low on real money, though Dean, thank god, can still play pool better than anyone Sam's ever met. Just somewhere where they can chill for a while, heal up. Jesus, at this pace, his brother's gonna end up in a wheelchair before he's thirty. So might Sam, for that matter.

But John's here, and John's hunting the demon. The demon that killed Jess, that killed his mother, the mother he can now picture, 3-d, right in front of him. She said she was _sorry_ – why did she say that? It leaves a cold feeling in Sam's gut, a spreading sensation of doom, and he feels his fists curl involuntarily. Fuck. He wants to get this fucking demon, wants to _end _it. They've all got unfinished business with the thing, but with Sam – with Sam – well, fuck, it was _his _nursery, _his _girlfriend, and that doesn't feel like a coincidence. It feels – terrifying. But real.

He buries his head in his hands, runs his fingers through his hair. He doesn't know _what _he wants, if he wants to stay put or keep going, rest a little or charge forwards. Provided John even lets them come, which is highly doubtful in the first place.

And as much as he hates to side with his father on _anything, _Dean shouldn't be hunting. It's been four months, and Sam never stops being impressed with what his brother's capable of, and to tell the truth, he _loves _hunting just him and Dean, finds a joy in it that was never there with his father barking orders over his shoulder all the goddamn time – though Dean can hold his own when it comes to barking orders, that's for damn sure – But – but he can't just sit here and watch his brother move a little slower every day, face drawn just a little tighter each morning, knuckles too white around his crutches, breath coming a little too fast. It _hurts, _watching this, and knowing that he can't do shit about it, that Dean won't _let _him do shit about it. His brother needs to slow down, at least for a while, let his body knit itself back together a little.

But the _demon._

Sam lets out a little groan of frustration. Maybe – maybe he and John can convince Dean to head up to Bobby's for a while, just until this thing is dead. Then they'll come get him, and it won't be like when Sam left the first time, or when John left, because —

Jesus, who is he kidding? He can't _leave _his brother, not again, not after he swore he wouldn't, not after Dad and everything. Besides, he and John would kill one another without Dean around. And there's no way Dean would agree to that in the first place, no way would he just nod and sit this one out, the fight he's been preparing for for his whole goddamn life. But _fuck, _he just wants Dean to be _safe, _and there's no way he's gonna be safe if —

The bathroom door opens and Sam jumps, guilty.

Dean's leaning in the doorway in his t-shirt, boxers and leg brace, face flushed from the steam, hair stuck up in wet spikes. He looks very young, all of a sudden, and Sam feels a fierce surge of protectiveness surge through him. Is _this _what it was like for Dean, growing up? The constant gnaw of worry, of fear?

"Hey," Dean says, oblivious. "You mind doing me a favor?"

"No," Sam says. _Anything._ "What's up?"

"Uh, you mind running out to the car? Grab my cane? Not that you aren't a wonderful walking accessory, but."

"Sure," Sam says, stands, pauses. "Dean. I haven't forgotten that you're supposed to be in your bed."

"Sam," Dean says, in the same precise, lecturing tone. "Bed rest is over."

"Dude—"

"Swear to god, I think that Burshit thing is clearing itself up. I'll keep taking the ibuprofen, I'll keep up with the heat packs and the cold packs and the backpacks, whatever, but bed rest? Over."

"Dean—"

"Sam." Dean's jaw is set in a way that brooks no argument, and there's a half-manic glint in his eye that makes Sam nervous. God_damn _John. Dean was actually _listening _to him before John showed up, but godforbid Dean be weak enough to be on bed rest in front of their father, godforbid he let John think for one second that he's gone soft, godforbid—

"Sam," Dean barks. "Cane."

Sam moves to the door, still fuming, slams it hard behind him.

He rummages through the Impala's trunk with more force than is necessary, finds Dean's cane under a couple rifles, feels some of his anger deflate at the sight. Jess. Jess picked this out for Dean, and Dean's always been careful with it, treasured it in his own Dean way.

He slams the trunk, feels a hand on his shoulder and whips around, pure instinct, fist rising. His father steps back, half-smile on his face, palms up.

"Woah, Sammy," John says.

"It's Sam," Sam growls, even though, let's admit it, it's a lost fucking cause. "Hey. You're…"

"Still here?" John asks ruefully, runs a hand over the back of his head. He looks tired, the skin around his eyes swollen puffy and red, the rest of his face pale. He looks like someone who's been crying all night. Sam swallows. "Yeah, I'm still here."

"I'm just," Sam hoists the cane.

"How's he doing?"

"Seems all right, considering," Sam says as they start back to the motel.

"How's the shoulder?"

"Been better." Sam opens the door, finds Dean still leaning against the bathroom doorjamb, lids half-mast, like he's dozing. His eyes snap open as they come into the room, freezing when he sees his father, watches John's eyes as they widen at the sight of his leg, encased in the brace but the scars still visible, threading over his knee and turning thick and ugly up his thigh, disappearing under the hem of his boxers. Dean makes a small, convulsive movement like he wants to slam the door, but checks himself.

"Morning," he says, voice stiff, and holds out his hand for his cane. Sam gives it to him, and Dean nods his thanks, carefully shuts the door again.

Sam turns back to his father, who's staring at the closed door.

"He…" John says, makes a small gesture.

"Had like twelve major surgeries? Yeah." Sam pitches his voice low but doesn't bother to keep the disdain from leaking through.

"Don't talk to me in that tone," John says, bristling.

"Don't act like he's a freak."

"I just didn't know—"

"'Cause you weren't there."

John sets his jaw, takes a breath. His next sentence is unexpected. "You hungry?"

"You buying?" Sam asks after a moment.

"Yeah. You boys good for cash?"

"Why, you gonna pay us off, send us on our way?"

"Sammy, you just don't know how to cut me a break, do you?"

"Nope."

They glare at each other for a moment, and Dean comes out of the bathroom, jeans on now, movements a little hitched and slow with the cane, out of practice. He gives them both a wary look as he lowers himself onto his bed.

"You guys fighting again?" he asks, tapping a cigarette out of his pack, fumbling for his lighter on the nighttable.

"Thought this was a no-smoking room," John says.

"We disabled the fire alarm." Dean exhales a cloud of smoke, looks at his father defiantly.

"Dean—"

"You already got one kid yelling at you, you wanna add me to the mix?" Dean snaps. "Stow the lecture."

John looks at him helplessly, and for one, brief moment, Sam feels sorry for his father. John's not used to Dean backtalking him – in the old days Dean would have rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath, and stubbed out the cigarette, looking sheepish. Tell the truth, Sam's not used to it either. John gave something up, when he left, and he's only just realizing that – Dean's still quick to defend their father, but something's shifted. There's a bitterness there that wasn't there before.

Sam's always wanted Dean to see John like he does, to stand up to him, but now that it's happening, it just makes Sam feel hollow inside. Like everything's coming apart at the seams.

"Let's just get some breakfast," Sam says, can't believe that _he's _the one breaking Dean and John up, and apparently Dean recognizes the irony too, because he laughs, a harsh, unhappy sound, takes a drag of his cigarette.

"Breakfast," he says. "Great."

John's phone rings and they all jump.

John glances at it. "Missouri," he says, flips it open. "Hello?"

There's a high, fast-talking voice on the other end, and John says, "I know, it—No, of course we're not blaming you, we just — Uh-huh. Uh-huh — Well, we were about to go have breakfast and then — Oh yeah? Uh — Right. Hang on." He presses the phone to his shoulder. "Uh, Missouri says… she says she's making waffles."

"So?" Dean says, clearly still annoyed with the woman.

"She's invited us over, Dean. Then we can go check out the house."

"Fuck that," Dean says dismissively, smoke jetting out from his nostrils in angry little spurts.

"Dean," John says, and turns back to the phone. "I don't think—Oh, well that's very—But we really can't—I—Because it's just—Right—Right—Twenty minutes, okay." He hangs up the phone, looks at it in befuddlement.

"Uh," he says, scratches his jaw, purses his lips. Addresses the ceiling. "We're goin' to Missouri's for waffles."

"Dad—"

"That's an _order._"

"I like waffles," Sam says helpfully, and two pairs of eyes settle on him in a glare. Dean looks pissed, though John – John looks slightly relieved. Like he wants a buffer between himself and his sons.

"Whatever," Dean says, nurses a last drag from his cigarette and grinds it out, grips his cane and takes a deep breath in preparation for getting himself to his feet.

"You need—" John asks, but Dean gives him a curt, "_No_," and hauls himself up on his own, heads to the table and shrugs on his jacket. His eyes flick to the empty bottle on the table, then towards Sam, like he's trying to figure out if the bottle was empty last night, and Sam busies himself trying to get into his sweatshirt with one arm, pretends not to notice Dean's eyes on him. Not like he needs to defend himself, he just doesn't feel like being lectured at.

Once out in the parking lot, John says, "Who's got the keys?"

"Yeah, right," Dean says, jingles them in his pocket. "You're not driving."

"Sam can't, and you—"

"I can drive just fine," Dean huffs, "you saw me drive last night."

"Yeah, but—"

"You just wanna get behind her wheel."

Joh shrugs sheepishly. "So?"

Dean looks at him for a second, then grins, tosses him the keys. "Fine. But I call shotgun."

"What!" Sam says indignantly.

"Get in back, little brother," Dean says, "and take this with you." He hands Sam his cane with an obnoxious grin, lowers himself carefully into the front seat with a grunt that he disguises with a cough.

John turns the key in the ignition, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Missed you, baby," he says, smoothes the steering wheel with his hand.

"Oh, come _on,_" Sam says. Like Dean needs more encouragement.

John grins, adjusts the rearview and pulls out of the parking lot.

They drive in silence for a few minutes, until Dean cracks a window and reaches into his pockets for his cigarettes.

"You're kiddin' me, right?" John asks, gives him a disgusted, sideways glance.

Dean doesn't say anything, but Sam can see his shoulders tighten as he cups his hands to get it lit.

"Dean, you just smoked one of those."

"Really not in the mood, Dad," Dean says. "Really."

"I—"

"_Dad,_" Dean says, tone dangerous. "Not in the mood."

John looks like he wants to say something else, but he just rolls down his own window, tightens his grip on the wheel.

There's silence again, and Sam wonders when the hell they're going to talk about what comes next. What they're going to do, where they're going to go, whether or not John's gonna take off again. He watches Dean flick ash out the window, put his cigarette in his mouth and attempt to adjust himself in his seat a little, lever himself up on his hands and ease back down, shift his weight.

"You all right?" John asks, glancing over at him. "Leg bothering you?"

Dean looks at his father briefly, and Sam realizes it's the first time he's heard John mention Dean's leg to Dean, address the issue straight-on instead of sidestepping it somehow.

"It's fine," Dean says, stops fidgeting, drags on his cigarette and runs a hand across his mouth, sighs a little.

When they get to Missouri's, John is careful to hand the keys back to Dean as soon as he gets them out of the ignition, and Dean nods, tucks them back in his jacket, a strange, Winchester type of truce that makes Sam's chest clench a little.

There are three big steps leading up to Missouri's front door, three big steps and no railing, and Sam automatically sidles next to Dean at the foot of them, gets a hand under his elbow before his brother can start to worry about asking for help. For just one second Dean gives him this _look_, gratitude and frustration and a bone-deep misery that has Sam looking away, pretending, for both their sakes, that he didn't see it, just lets Dean lean on him as he gets him up slowly up the stairs.

John makes sure they're up before he knocks on the door, puts his hands in his pockets and steps back, waiting.

Missouri opens the door almost immediately, face contrite.

"I was wrong," she says by way of greeting as she ushers them into the waiting room, "I told you boys that house was clean, but lord, was I wrong. Gotta happen to everybody sometime, I guess, and I was long overdue."

Dean snorts, and she turns a glare on him. "You expect me to believe you never made a mistake, Dean Winchester?"

Sam elbows him in the side before he can answer, feels guilty at Dean's intake of breath; he'd forgotten his brother's bruises.

"It's all right," John says, "but we should go over after breakfast and give it another look-through. With you _and_ the E.M.F."

Missouri prickles at the mention of the E.M.F., but she doesn't say anything; can't, really, given the circumstances.

"Thanks for having us," John says, following her into the kitchen. "House looks great. Fixed it up since last time I saw it."

"I did," Missouri says, nodding. "Much better now, don't you think? I wanted all my clients to feel comfortable."

"Ain't exactly handicapped-accessible," Dean mutters, quiet so only Sam can hear, lowering himself into the first chair he sees. Missouri looks at him.

"What'd you say?"

"Lovely wood floors," Dean says louder, gives her a bright, insincere smile. She eyes him suspiciously, then turns back to John and Sam.

"Well, sit down," she says, gesturing, and they sit, three tall men around a small table. It would be kind of a funny sight if they didn't all look so beat-up, Dean with his cane and the cut on his eyebrow, Sam with his one-armed shirt, John looking exhausted, old bruises mottling his face, stitches on his cheek.

Missouri sets plates in front of them, turns to the oven and comes back with a huge, steaming platter of waffles. Sam feels his mouth start to water – he _loves_ waffles, and if he's not mistaken, some of these have blueberries in them. And oh man, he _loves _blueberries.

"Can I help?" John asks, half-rising from the table.

"Why don't you put the bacon on a plate," she says, hands him a spatula, and Sam sees Dean perk up a little at the word _bacon. _Good. Maybe he'll eat something, for a change.

Sam picks up a fork, starts sawing away at his waffles, but it's hard with just one hand, and he furrows his brow in frustration.

"Hey," Dean says, reaches over and pulls the plate away from Sam, starts cutting Sam's waffles for him.

"What am I, four?"

"Pretty much," Dean says. "You want me to butter 'em, too?"

"Um. Yeah."

Dean grins, reaches for the butter.

"So, John," Missouri says as they settle around the table. "Tell me what you've been doing since I last saw you, what was it – eighteen years ago?"

"A little more than that," John says, with a small smile in Sam's direction. "How old are you, Sam? Twenty-two?"

"Yeah."

"Twenty-two years, then. Well – twenty-one and a half."

John fills her in about what they've been doing, sort of, with plenty of careful editing, and Sam keeps an eye on Dean, watches him eat a couple bacon strips and make a valiant effort at putting waffles in his mouth and swallowing, though he doesn't seem like he's enjoying it too much. He drinks the coffee, though, three cups as Sam works on one. The coffee's good, but Sam can't help and wish it were something a little stronger. It's early, not yet ten o'clock, but it _feels _later.

"Stanford, huh?" Missouri asks, breaking into his contemplation of the coffee.

"Oh," Sam says, realizes John must have told her just now. "Yeah."

"Well, look at that. That's a good school; I have a cousin went to Stanford, one of the smartest young women I've ever met. Little before your time, though. What'd you study, Sam?"

"I was pre-law," Sam says, stuffs a bite of waffle in his mouth and grins at the expression on his dad's face.

"Law?" John says incredulously. "Didn't I teach you anything?"

"Law's not just about cops, Dad," Sam says. "There's lots of different kinds. Criminal law, civil law, corporate law, environmental law—"

"Environmental?" John scoffs. "What, trees suing the storm that knocked them over?"

"Look it up," Sam snaps, and John's face grows dark.

Dean chokes on his coffee just then, has a coughing fit that Sam's pretty sure is about 80% fake, but he's glad enough for this particular conversation to be over. He doesn't want to talk to John about Stanford. His father and college are two completely separate worlds that he doesn't want mixing; John'll just make Stanford seem even more unreal than it already feels.

Dean gives a last, dramatic throat-clear, drains the rest of his coffee cup. "I'm gonna step outside for a moment," he says. "If you'll excuse me."

There's still a good portion of his waffle left on the plate, and Sam says, "You're gonna finish that, right?"

"All yours, Sammy," Dean says, which isn't what Sam meant and they both know it.

"I'll wait 'til you get back," Sam says, "see how you feel."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Sam realizes that Missouri and John are watching them curiously, and he turns back to his own waffle with a scowl. He feels like a babysitter, always trying to get Dean to eat, wonders if it would help if he loaded up a fork and zoomed it like an airplane towards his brother's face. It always worked when he was a kid._ Open wide, Sammy!_

Dean plants a hand on the table and one on his cane, and Sam tenses, at the ready if he needs help. But he manages to get himself up on the first try, gives them all an I-see-you-staring sarcastic nod, and moves out of the kitchen.

Dean gets outside, eases himself down onto one of the wicker chairs she's got on her porch, rummages around in his pockets till his hand clamps down on his cigarettes. He lights one and exhales slowly, rubs his forehead. Here they are, sitting around a table eating waffles when Dean just wants to get this shit over with. If John and Sam are going to leave, he wants them to leave now, _today, _as soon as possible, so he can get his shit together and figure out what he's going to do.

And if they're not leaving – and Dean doesn't want to get his hopes up, but – if they're not leaving, they need to figure out what the hell they are doing. Dean is under no illusions that his father's gonna stick around – it's Sam he's wondering about.

It might be good for him if Sam took off for a while, good for them both. Dean doesn't like the pattern they're falling into, Sam the caretaker, Dean the thing around his neck, weighing him down. He notices especially now that they've got another pair of eyes on them, notices how Sam seems to anticipate what he needs before he asks, knows just how to maneuver him up a flight of stairs, across a room. Dean shouldn't need that kind of attention, shouldn't count on it, and Sam – it's wearing on his brother, he can tell, can tell by the dark circles under Sam's eyes, the new worry lines etched between his brows, the drinking.

Christ, the drinking. Dean doesn't know if he should be worried, but it's too late, because he already is. It's been about three weeks now that Sam's been drinking pretty heavily, every day, if Dean admits it to himself, and he could have sworn that bottle of Jack still had some left when he went to sleep last night, which means that Sam's already had a drink today, which just… really isn't good, considering it's well before noon. Not that he thinks Sam is an alcoholic, or anything… but he's been drinking too much, and it's Dean's fault.

Dean takes a drag of his cigarette, thinks that maybe, if Sam tries to protest, maybe Dean'll _make_ Sam go with John. Because the kid needs a break – and although demon hunting with a father that drives you insane maybe isn't the greatest vacation ever, it's a far sight better than babysitting your big brother, who can't even get up a flight of stairs without your help. And then, once this thing is dead – if it's ever dead – then Sam can go back to school. _Needs _to go back to school, Dean'll make sure of that. And when he does… well… Dean will… work something out.

He feels something on his cheek, swipes at it in annoyance, because _when _are these fucking antidepressants gonna kick in so he can stop _crying_ every time he's alone for five minutes? He takes a deep breath, gets himself under control, just in time to hear the door open. He whips his head around, gets a crick in his neck as his sore muscles protest the sudden movement.

"Hey," John says, comes and sits in the wicker chair next to Dean, their knees almost touching.

"Hey," Dean says cautiously. "Where's Sam?"

"Inside talkin' to Missouri." John gives Dean a lopsided grin.

"You come out here to bitch me out again?" Dean asks, heists his cigarettes a little.

"No," John says, then, like he can't help himself, "but you _are_ smoking too much."

"I know," Dean says, takes a guilty drag.

"Just needed some fresh air," John continues, leaning back. "Though this ain't too fresh."

"You should go to Sam if you want fresh," Dean says, and John huffs a laugh.

"That boy," John says, shakes his head. "Like a dog with a bone."

"Tell me about it."

"Woulda been scary to see that shit in a courtroom."

Dean casts a sideways glance at his father. "He didn't withdraw. He took a leave of absence. He's goin' back."

John nods like he doesn't believe it. "Maybe."

Dean feels his temper flare up, in part because it's weird how his father picked up on his exact train of thought of a couple minutes ago. "He's too fuckin' smart to do this all his life," he snaps. "He belongs in school. I saw him there, Dad. He was _happy_. Sam. Happy. You ever seen Sam happy?"

John is silent for a moment, then, "No. Guess I haven't."

Dean crushes his cigarette butt out on the end of his lighter, slips it into the pack, because even though he doesn't like Missouri, he doesn't want to be leaving butts all over her porch.

"You gonna freak out if I smoke another one?" he demands, knows his tone is hostile but can't really tamp it down. He's too on-edge.

"Only on the inside," John says, and Dean can't help but laugh because it's so true.

He shakes out another cigarette, sparks his Zippo and inhales, feels a little like he's sixteen again and his father's going to try and ground him.

"Dean," John says. Here it comes.

Dean doesn't look at him, just takes another drag, watches the smoke dissipate in the damp, chilly air.

"Dean," John says again. "I didn't know… it's been hard to get you alone."

Dean picks an invisible fleck of something off his jeans, braces himself.

"Your brother," John says, takes a deep breath. "Your brother drives me crazy, but… he's right about some things."

"He's a freakin' genius," Dean says tiredly. "'Course he's right about some things."

"I mean, he's right about… what I did."

Dean goes still, examines the burned end of his cigarette. "It's okay," he says finally, not sure what else to say, not sure what they're talking about.

"No, dammit, it's not," John says, sitting up a little straighter. "I should have – I should have at least left a note. No – I should have stuck around 'til you weren't so doped up that you didn't recognize me, and I should have talked to you myself."

Dean pulls long on his cigarette, holds the smoke in his lungs so he can try and formulate a response to that.

"It's okay," he says again, finally, because fuck, he doesn't know what to say. Needs his father to shut up, or he's gonna get angry, or he's gonna cry, or both, and god, this is so not the time for either of those things. _Don't press me, Dad. Don't fuckin' do it._

"It was selfish," John says. "I was selfish, and I was scared. I was afraid for you, I was – I didn't want you to get hurt, and – I was afraid. I was really fuckin' scared, Dean. You don't know what it – I've never seen you like that. Never seen you hurt so bad. And they told me you probably weren't going to walk again, and I freaked. I did. It scared me."

"It scared _you_?" Dean explodes, like he knew he would. "How the fuck do you think I felt, Dad? I woke up in that hospital, and not only did I have to deal with the fact that my body was completely fucked, but I thought you were _dead_. Swear to god, I thought you were dead. It took me _months _to figure out that, no, you were fine, you'd just taken off, not a backwards glance. Only reason I knew was 'cause you left me your journal, and 'cause _someone _was paying for my hospital bills, and it sure as hell wasn't me. Thanks for that, by the way; it was nice knowing you gave a shit."

"Dean," John says. "I can't… I don't have any more excuses."

"Good," Dean spits, "'cause you ran out of free passes." He drags on his cigarette so hard the tip crackles and sparks, and he lets out an angry breath of smoke, tries to get himself under control.

He didn't mean to explode. He doesn't want this. Doesn't want to scare his father off again, doesn't want his family to disappear on him and refuse to take his calls like they've both done before, like they're probably gonna do again. What is it about him, what is he doing wrong? What makes him so fucking hard to be around that no one can stand to stay?

"Hey," John says, voice soft, nervous, "Fuck, Dean, I'm sorry, don't…"

Dean realizes that tears have gathered on his eyelashes, are dropping into his lap, and he dashes them away angrily, doesn't look at his father.

He feels a heavy hand settle on the back of his neck, and he jerks away, doesn't know if he can handle being touched right now, but his father is insistent, grips Dean's head, forces him to turn.

"Hey," John says, jaw working in and out, and Dean realizes in shock that his father's got tears in eyes too, is trying hard not to let them fall. "Dean," John says, "I don't – what can – I'm _sorry, _son, I'm… I fucked up. God, I fucked up. I thought I was protecting you, thought… It made so much sense at the time, seemed like the only reasonable thing to do. I don't…"

"Dad," Dean says, trying to keep his voice steady, "Dad, it's… fuck, it's not okay, but it … it's over, it's done. I'm not – I don't wanna be mad at you, I just – don't want you to – I just can't, again, if you –" he breaks off, because if he keeps going he's going to fall apart, and they're on Missouri's porch for chrissake, in plain view of the world. He reaches for his cane blindly, suddenly just needs to get up and away, somewhere, but John snatches the cane away and grips his arm, holds him down.

"Dean, I'm not gonna do that again," John says, gives him a shake. "Okay? From now on, whatever happens, and – and we gotta talk about what's gonna happen – but I'll never go AWOL on you again. Never. I'll always tell you where I am, and you'll always be able to reach me. Okay? That's all – that's the only thing I can promise you, but I _promise_."

"Okay," Dean says, gulps tears, tries to turn away, but his father's got his hand firmly cupped around the back of his head.

"Okay?"

"_Yes,_" Dean says, and for a moment, he believes, really, really wants to believe, feels his eyes fill again with the strength of his wanting.

John holds his gaze for a moment and then releases him. He rubs a hand across his eyes and lets out a long, shaky sniff that manages, somehow, to sound both manly and tough. Whereas Dean is trying to mop his face, snuffling into his sleeve like an anteater. It's not _fair. _

"Can we—" Dean's voice cracks a little, but he brings it under control. "Can we _never _do that again?"

"I told you I wouldn't," John says seriously, then lets out a wobbly laugh at the look on Dean's face. "Okay. We're done. At ease, soldier."

Dean tries a laugh in return, shakes his head, still feels the push and pull of a thousand different emotions all vying for precedence, but he thinks he's more or less under control. He'd feel a hell of a lot more embarrassed if his father weren't still busy chasing tear tracks with the heel of his hand.

"Oh," John says suddenly, holds out Dean's cane sheepishly. "Here."

"That's Sam's number-one move, too," Dean says bitterly, propping it back up against the porch railing. "Take away the crippled guy's cane. Can't go wrong."

"Sorry," John says. "Maybe if you didn't always try to get away."

"We're gonna talk about running away again, huh?" Dean asks mockingly. "Thought we just covered that."

"So we're at the point where we can joke about this?" John counters. "Good. That's a good point to be at."

"Yeah," Dean says, suddenly exhausted, all his aches and pains rushing back to him with a strength that curls his lip. Fuck. Vicodin's wearing off. And his pills are all the way…

"Dad," he says, feeling reckless. "You wanna do me a favor?"

His father raises an eyebrow.

"Down in the Impala, glove box. Ziploc bag with some meds. Wanna grab me two?"

"Sure," John says, pushes himself up from the chair and heads down to the car. Dean watches him lean into the front seat, and he lets out a breath. Doesn't know why he feels so shaky, like it was a brave move, just asking his Dad to grab a couple painkillers, but it feels like admitting something, like he's confronting John somehow. Stupid, but there it is.

He shakes another cigarette from the pack, lets out a breath of smoke as his father comes up the steps, nose wrinkled.

"Here," he says, drops the pills into Dean's hand, "you need—guess not," he finishes, as Dean dry-swallows them without hesitation.

"Practice," Dean says with a slight smile. John nods.

"You wanna," he gestures inside.

Dean holds up his cigarette. "Few minutes."

John looks at him, clearly wants to say something, thins his lips.

"I'm gonna quit," Dean says. "Just… not right now. Shit's too…" he waves his hand.

"There's gum," John says, grimaces like he knows he sounds stupid.

"I have the gum."

"Okay." John juts his jaw, nods, glances towards the door. "Uh," he says, gesturing to his face, "Do I look…"

"Like you just stepped out of _Bridges of Madison County?_"

"Yeah," John says with a sheepish laugh.

"No. You look like Indiana Jones."

"Smartass."

Dean holds up his hands, smiles, takes a drag and eyes his father through the smoke. "Tellin' it like it is."

John ducks his head. "Come in when you're done. Don't – don't smoke another one."

"I won't," Dean says, rolls his eyes. Doesn't relax until John goes back into the house. As soon as the door closes he slumps down in his chair, closes his eyes.

_Jesus._

Does this change anything? His father promised, said he wouldn't take off like that again. Doesn't mean he's not gonna take off – Dean knows he will. Probably take Sam with him. But they'll be in touch. They're not… John promised they wouldn't just cut him out.

God, he wants to believe it's true.

He flicks ash, licks the taste of salt from his lips. Can't believe he just cried in front of John. His father's never apologized to him for anything before – in fact, he doesn't think he and his father have ever had an interaction quite like that, ever. Sam and his father, yeah, all the fucking time. He and Sam, yeah, once or twice. But Dean and John? Never.

Sammy's gonna _so _pissed he missed it.

To be continued…


	10. Chapter 10

It's strange, being in the old house. It feels like the first time; last night it was dark, for one thing, and for another, Dean was a little too busy being thrown into the furniture to take a good look around.

His father, Sam and Missouri are casing the joint corner-to-corner, but Dean's settled on the couch with a sparkly plastic cup of juice in one hand. He had put up a token protest, but it was pretty clear he wasn't gonna make it up the stairs, and honestly, the way he's feeling? He didn't even want to try. He's sweeping his eyes over what he can see of the house, remembering little, silly things – smacking his head on the molding in that corner, Sam in a weird, jingly swing-thing hanging between those two doors…

"So," Jenny says, perched on an armchair across from him, bouncing Richie idly on her knee. "I'm living in a ghost hunter's haunted house."

"Ex-haunted," Dean amends. "And, uh, ex-our house."

"God," she groans, "just my luck."

Richie smacks her face with his little palms, and she lets him down. He toddles over to Dean, looks at him suspiciously.

"Juicy," he says.

"Yeah," Dean says, hoists the cup, and Richie pounds him on his bad knee. He can't help a little pained groan, because christ, the kid's stronger than he looks, and Jenny glances up at him, flicks her eyes to the cane propped up beside him.

"You didn't—I mean, last night—"

"Nah, it's an old problem," Dean says, grimacing as Richie tries to clamber up on the couch using Dean's bad leg as a ladder. "Hey," he says to the kid, carefully sets his juice down and scoops Richie up, plops him on the couch by his good side. "Manhandle this leg, huh?"

Richie complies, starts beating a pattern on Dean's knee, and Dean reaches back for his juice, takes a sip. Pineapple. Who'da thunk it.

"Do you mind me asking…?"

"Uh," Dean says. "Fell a couple stories."

She winces. "Hunting ghosts?"

"Poltergeist," he says, grins a little at the expression on her face, doesn't bother to explain that she actually had a poltergeist in her own home, not a ghost. _Ghost _is a lot easier for people to understand. Although he guesses she had a ghost too – well, a spirit. His mother's spirit.

Richie is making a high-pitched noise and squeezing Dean's earlobe, and Jenny looks at him in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, is he bugging you? Richie, come here!"

"No, he's fine," Dean says. "Really, I don't mind."

Sam wanders into the living room a few minutes later and grins at the sight of Dean, Richie's hands buried deep in his hair, one foot planted on his thigh.

Dean gives him a don't-you-dare-say-a-word glare, and Sam sinks onto the couch next to them.

"Place looks clean," he says. "Completely clean. Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," he repeats meaningfully. "They're both gone."

John and Missouri come in, trailed by Sari, who's holding the E.M.F.

"Nothin'," Missouri says, shaking her head. "Not even a trace."

Jenny lets out a little sigh of relief. "Really? 'Cause I just can't afford to sell this house right now, and—"

"You got nothin' to worry about," Missouri says. "And even if you did, I only live a few minutes away. We'll stay in touch, but you'll see, you won't need me."

"Thank you all so much," Jenny says fervently as Dean tries to unstick Richie from his shirt so he can get up.

"Little help here?" he grits, and Sam laughs, reaches over and tugs Richie off, climbs to his feet and reaches out his good hand towards Dean. Dean looks at it for a second, trying to judge how difficult the ascent will be, then takes it grudgingly, pulls himself to his feet with a wince and hiss of breath.

His leg might be killing him, but it feels good to be back on the cane again, instead of the crutches. Feels freer.

"Oh," Jenny says, "I almost forgot," and she digs into her pocket, comes out with a cellphone. "This was on my front walk; belong to any of you?"

"That's mine," Dean says, reaching, "Christ, I completely forgot. Thanks, Jenny."

She nods, smiles. "You guys be safe, huh? Take care of yourselves."

"We'll try," John says. "You watch out for those kids of yours."

"You too," she says with a half-smile, stands in the doorway as they leave.

John goes towards his truck, but Sam tugs him back. "Hey," he says. "I'll take your truck. You go in the Impala."

"I'm not goin' anywhere, Sammy," John says with an exasperated sigh.

"Yeah, well, I don't trust you."

They look at one another for a moment, and then John rolls off a shrug. "Fine. But I'm driving."

Dean tosses him the keys without protest, and Sam and John go around back to the trunk to put the weapons and E.M.F. away. Dean, sitting in the backseat, Missouri in front, can hear them start to bicker about rifle placement or something stupid like that, and Dean leans against the door, sighs a little.

"Those two seem to go head-to-head on a lotta things," Missouri says, twisting a little to look at Dean.

Dean gives her an annoyed grunt as an answer, because it may be true, but he doesn't need other people making observations about his family. Especially not some two-bit psychic who almost got them killed with her "the house is clean" shit.

Missouri glances at him sharply. "I understand you're in pain, boy, but that's no excuse to be uncivil."

"I'm sorry," Dean says, instantly contrite, because she's right, the throb of his leg is making him crabby, and he shouldn't snap at Missouri.

_Right. _He'll just save it for his little brother, who'll take it without complaint. God, Dean's an asshole.

"Dean," Missouri says, reaches out and lays a hand on his bad knee, winces a little like she's in pain. Dean, uncomfortable under her touch, can't stop from twitching, but she holds on, expression intent. He's unsure, doesn't know what she's doing, doesn't know whether to move or stay still, but the pressure he feels in his hip mean's he's going to have to change position sooner or later. And that's when Missouri shifts in her seat with a familiar movement, a movement Dean recognizes from having done it a thousand times before; the exact movement he was about to make.

"Hey, woah," Dean says, comprehension dawning. "Can … are you… can you feel it?"

"Mmm hmm," she says, lips tight. "Sure ain't pleasant."

Dean can't help himself, flexes his leg a little, just for that flicker of pain he knows will come up from his knee. He and Missouri grimace at the same time.

"Okay," Dean says, feeling invaded, "that's…"

"It's a metaphor, honey," Missouri says.

"A metaphor."

"You do know what that is?"

Dean bristles a little, and Missouri smirks.

"Well, this one's important," she says, hand still on his knee, wince still on her face. Dean wonders if that's what he looks like, all the time, forehead just a little furrowed, mouth flat, eyes a little unfocused from pain.

"No," Missouri says. "Maybe at first, but you're more used to it than I am."

"I don't mean to be uncivil," Dean says coldly, "but would you mind getting out of my head?"

Missouri withdraws her hand, relaxes a little, relief flickering across her face.

"So," Dean says after a moment, cursing himself. "What's the metaphor?"

"You gotta figure that out yourself," Missouri says. "But Dean, honey – things'll get better."

Dean is spared from having to answer by John yanking open the front door and climbing inside, doesn't close the door, just look up at Sam scowling down at him. John glances at Dean. "Can't believe you let your brother stack the rifles in the back like that."

"Saves room," Dean shrugs, and from outside the car Sam crows in triumph, bangs on the roof.

"That's what I said!"

John gives Sam an annoyed look that's more fondness than anger, and Dean can't help but smile a little.

"See you back at the motel," John says, and slams the door.

They drive in silence for a moment, and then John clears his throat, inclines his head towards Missouri. "So, Mary—Mary's gone?"

"Yes," Missouri says. "From what you told me – she destroyed herself getting' rid of that thing. Their energies cancelled one another out."

John nods, tightens his grip on the wheel.

"That wasn't your wife, in there," Missouri says softly. "You know that, right? Spirits aren't the people we loved, they're just echoes."

"Close enough," John says, and no one asks him what he means.

They drop Missouri off at her house, but Dean stays in the backseat, too lazy to get up and get in front.

"You remember that house at all?" John asks unexpectedly as they pull away from the curb.

"What, Missouri's?"

"No. The—our old house."

"Yeah, I remember," Dean says, digging in his pockets for his cigarettes. "Some." In the rearview, his father nods, looks a question at him, and Dean knows what he's really asking. He lights his cigarette, leans back in the seat, licks his lips.

"Uh, I remember we had this white couch?"

"Yeah," John says. "We did."

"And I poured paint on it? Or something dark."

"Motor oil," John says, shakes his head. "Motor oil, Dean. I brought it home from work to oil our lawnmower and like an idiot, I left it on the table where you could reach it."

"Yeah," Dean says. "And Mom freaked out at me. I can remember watching her mouth move, you know, she was so pissed, but I wasn't scared… I was just… I think I thought it was kinda funny. I thought she looked funny."

"She did," John says, grins. "When she got mad, her eyes would bug out, and her nostrils would get huge, like, nickel-sized."

Dean sniffs a laugh, takes a drag and rolls the smoke around in his mouth. Remembers something suddenly. "Sam wasn't around yet, but… he was on his way, I think."

"Yeah," John says. "It was just a couple weeks before your brother was born. Jesus, she was a bitch that last month."

Dean's eyes widen, because in their family, calling Mary a bitch is kinda like calling the Virgin Mary a whore while kissing the pope's hand in the Sistine Chapel. But John is smiling to himself, lost in some memory, hands loose on the wheel, and Dean relaxes into the seat, flicks ash out the window. Watches the road.

When they get back, John comes around to Dean's door, cocks his head a little.

"I got it," Dean says, pulls himself out of the car as his father hovers, fingers twitching: Dean is reminded suddenly, strongly, of Sam, the same anxious look, same ready-for-anything stance. It pisses Dean off at the same time it makes him smile a little.

The motel room looks dingier to Dean, somehow, after spending the morning in two real homes. Clothes lumped in corners, grey walls, the stink of cigarettes. It depresses him, suddenly, and he eases himself down onto the bed feeling like he just wants to sleep for a year. Maybe never wake up.

He feels Sam watching him as he unwraps an Actiq, swabs it around his mouth a little and gets his legs up on the bed, eases back against the headboard.

"All right?" Sam asks him, and Dean nods, too tired to try and look more convincing. Jesus, it's only one in the afternoon, but he feels like it's much, much later.

He's aware that his father is standing strangely still, like he's waiting for their attention, and Sam and Dean glance at him at the same time. John rubs his jaw.

"We need to talk," he says.

"You breakin' up with us?" Dean asks, not really a joke, and no one smiles.

John sits down on the bed across from Dean, hands hanging in his lap. "I gotta get moving again," John says. "Today."

"Yeah," Sam says when Dean is silent. "Figured."

"I'm—I'll have my phone on," John starts, but Sam makes a violent movement towards him, fists balled.

"Dad," Sam says. "You can't keep us out of this."

"Sam—"

"No. You _can't. _ This is our fight just as much as yours – we've been at this just as long as you have, been waiting for this our whole fucking lives. Our whole _lives. _I _tried _to get away, Dad, and you almost killed me, told me I could never come back. Do you remember that? And now, now that I'm _in, _you try and cut me out? You're a fucking hypocrite, you know that?"

"It's not safe," John growls. "I will not put you in that kind of danger."

"Safe? Danger? You taught me how to shoot a gun when I was six, you think that's_ safe?_"

"This is different, Sam, this is a demon, a demon who is old, and smart, and who—"

"So it's okay for you to go up against it, but not us? You're on a fucking suicide mission, Dad, you don't care if you come out of this alive or not, do you?"

"Of course I care—"

"Then let us help! This is about our family, not just about you and the fucking demon. She was our mother, Jess was my girlfriend, and I deserve to have a part of this just as much as you do."

"This _isn't_ your fight," John says vehemently, "and it never was. It's my fight, and maybe you boys never should've been involved in the first place. Mary – your mother never would have wanted to see you living this life."

"Well, tough shit," Sam says, "because we're here now. It is our fight. It is our lives. And you can't just take back twenty-two years of that, you can't. You _can't._ It's done."

"You're right," John says, "it's too late. But it's not too late to keep you boys safe. You're not safe with me, Sam, and your brother — Dean —"

John and Sam both look at Dean, like they're just realizing that he hasn't said anything yet. Two pairs of demanding eyes on him. He swallows, wishes he could sink into the woodwork and disappear. He's the one making this difficult; there would be no argument if it weren't for him.

"Sam's right," Dean says quietly. "You can't cut us out of this, not now."

"Dean," John says. "Dean, you're gonna get yourself killed if you keep going on this way, and I can't — I can't let that happen. You need to stay put somewhere, stay off that leg, quit acting like things haven't changed for you because they _have._"

Dean takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders. "Then take Sam. I'll just slow you down, but Sam, he's _good_, he's a good hunter, he can help you, and you need backup, Dad, you can't do this alone."

"No," Sam says, "that isn't what I—"

"I can do research," Dean says steadfastly, "if you call me, and tell me what you need. I can stay with Bobby, or find a place somewhere, I—"

"No," Sam says, shaking his head, "this isn't what you want, Dean, you don't want to sit on your ass, I _know _you, I know you, man, and—"

"What the fuck does it matter what I _want_?" Dean asks. "I want a lotta things, Sam, and yeah, sittin' out for the count sure as hell ain't one of them. But—"

"It _does _matter, Dean, jesus, can't you—"

"I'll just fuck everything up," Dean says, "Dad's right, don't you get it? You can't trail this fuckin' thing with a disabled guy on your ass, draggin' you down, it's—"

"Stop," Sam says, "just stop, stop and listen to me, okay?"

Dean and John both fold their arms simultaneously, and Sam runs a hand through his hair, grips tight.

"I don't—I just want a compromise, okay?"

"I'm listenin'," John says.

"Dad — me and Dean, we'll stay put for a while—" Sam holds up his hand as Dean tries to say something. "We _will _dude, we both need a rest, not just you, so shut up for a second, all right?" He takes a breath, continues. "We'll stay put, rest for a while, but Dad, you have to keep us informed. I mean, you call us every few days, tell us exactly where you are and what you're doing. Fax us documents, email us photographs, whatever, we get all the details. Full disclosure."

John doesn't say anything, and Sam continues.

"And if, at any point, me and Dean feel like we should step in—we do. If you're getting close, we step in. If we have a lead we think we should follow, we follow it. And you don't give us any shit about it."

John tightens his mouth, looks from Dean to Sam. Sam adjusts his stance, jaw set. Dean can hear the cheap motel clock ticking away in a corner, can hear the murmur of traffic out the window. The thump of his heat.

"Okay," John says finally. "Deal."

"Promise me," Sam says immediately. "Promise me that we will have access to all the information that you do. Promise me that you won't go AWOL."

"I promise," John says, his eyes on Dean. "I promise, if you promise to do your best to take it easy. To take care of yourselves."

"We promise," Sam says.

"Shake on it," John says, and Sam reaches forward, grips his father's hand. "You too, Dean," John says. "I want you to _take it easy_, you hear me?"

"We can't just stop hunting," Dean says a little desperately. "There's – people need our help."

"Just promise me you're going to watch out for yourself as best you can, that you're gonna watch out for Sam."

This, this part Dean can promise, has been promising all his life. "All right."

John nods once, shakes his head. "I don't know what the hell I just agreed to."

"Honesty," Sam says stolidly. "You agreed to be straight with us. For once."

"Sam," John says, a warning in his voice. "Can you, for one second, just—" He breaks off, shakes his head, mouth slipping into a rueful smile. "He like this with you?" John asks Dean.

"Me?" Dean grins. "Nope. Me, he bakes pie."

Sam lets out a huff of laughter, sinks onto the bed next to Dean, and Dean feels the tension in his shoulders uncurl with hope and disbelief. Sam's not leaving. _Sam's not leaving. _

"Okay," John says, stands, glances towards the door. "I…"

"You gotta go," Sam finishes for him, then holds up three fingers. "Three days, Dad. You call us within three days or we go out and find the biggest, scariest, most dangerous hunt in the continental U.S. No, fuck that, Hawaii included."

"Okay," John says, grinning a little. "What about Alaska? Hear they've got haunted igloos up there."

Sam snorts. "Just call."

"I will."

They look at each other for a moment, Sam and John, then John reaches out an arm, and Sam steps into it, a quick, strong hug and a firm clap on the back, Sam with his chin hooked over his father's shoulder. Dean sees his eyes shut tight for just one second as he digs the fingers of his good hand into John's jacket.

Dean sucks on the Actiq, turns his head away.

John and Sam break apart, and Sam glances at Dean.

"Dad," Sam says, "your bag still in the Impala?"

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna… I'll go get it." He moves before either of them can protest, ducks out the door, Dean cringing at his lack of subtlety. Thought he taught the kid to be a little smoother than that.

As the door closes, John comes and sits next to Dean on the bed.

"We okay?" he asks.

"We're _fine_," Dean says. "Please, god, don't tell me we're gonna have a repeat of this morning." He grins at his father's grimace, clacks the Actiq stick against his teeth.

"Are those meds?" John asks, squinting at the plastic tab on the bottom.

"Yeah."

"Funny way to deliver 'em."

"You're tellin' me."

John smiles, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Painkillers?"

Dean quirks an eyebrow, doesn't answer.

"Dean…"

"Dad…"

John looks at him for a moment, then smiles grudgingly. "You gonna hug me before your brother gets sick of pretending to get my bag, or what?"

Dean laughs, and then his father is pulling him close, and Dean leans into him, ignores the protests from his hip, just concentrates on breathing the familiar scent of his father, leather and lighter fluid and the particular John smell, a little like the Impala, a little like Sam, but mostly just John, a smell Dean remembers from all the way back, when John used to bring home motor oil instead of gun oil.

"Don't be an idiot," John says in his ear.

"Don't be a jackass," Dean retorts, and his father snorts, releases him with a reluctant clap on the back.

"Take care of your brother."

"Yes, sir. You take care of yourself."

"I will."

John gives Dean's shoulder one last squeeze before standing, and, as if on cue, Sam opens the motel door, John's bag slung over his shoulder. John takes the bag with a smirk of thanks, pats Sam once on the side of his head.

"Okay," he says, looks around the room. "Okay."

"Three days," Sam says.

"Got it."

"And if we call, you pick up."

"Sam."

"Okay."

John nods once, puts his hand on the door, pauses. "It was good to see you boys."

"Thanks," Dean says. "For coming."

"Better late than never, right?" John says.

"Right," Sam mutters, and John gives him a last, wry smile before pulling the door shut behind him.

There's silence in the motel room, and Dean spits the Actiq into the wastebasket, digs his cigarettes out of his pocket, watches his brother sink down in the chair by the table and run a hand through his hair.

Dean lights his cigarette, exhales slowly as he closes his lighter with a snap.

"So," he says. "What exactly did you mean when you said_ rest_? Is there a bed in front of that? 'Cause I distinctly remember telling you I was done with bed rest."

Sam snorts. "I meant _rest_. Two weeks minimum, no hunting. My shoulder's fucked up and, no offense, but you're a _mess, _dude."

"Where the hell are we supposed to go?" Dean demands.

"I dunno, Bobby's? Cancun? We'll talk about it." He looks at Dean, face apprehensive. "But it was good, right? What I said? What we agreed on?"

Dean takes a drag, squints at the ceiling. "Yeah, Sam. It was good. Lawyerly."

Sam nods a little, relaxes.

"But," Dean says, can't help himself. "Dude, what I said – if you wanna go with Dad, this is your chance. I'm – I understand. Hell, I—"

"I don't wanna go with Dad," Sam says, eyes flashing. "I want in on this, but—not yet. When it gets… I mean, I think there's still a lot Dad doesn't know about this thing. We need to do more research, get his notes. Then decide what we want to do. But for now—for now, I just want to order a pizza, maybe watch a shitty movie, and sleep. We'll talk later, tonight or tomorrow, figure out what we want to do. Where we wanna go."

"Okay," Dean says, and he's gonna keep bitching about it, but deep down he's kind of looking forward to a few weeks of, you know, not getting thrown against walls every fucking day.

Sam gets up, stretches, crosses the room to the mini fridge and cracks a beer, takes a long swig.

"Little early for that," Dean says mildly as Sam comes to sit on his own bed.

"We're on vacation," Sam points out. "As of now."

Dean pulls on his cigarette, tries to decide if he should say something else, and Sam leans down and tugs the phonebook out of the drawer of his nighttable. "What kind of pizza you want?" he asks.

Dean shrugs. "I don't care."

Sam looks at him.

"Sausage. Onions. Peppers."

"Okay."

He listens to Sam order the pizza, finishes his smoke and eases himself up against the headboard a little more, painkiller in full, lazy effect.

"Fifteen minutes," Sam says, gulps his beer, rolls the can absently between his palms.

Dean pushes himself up a little more, eases his legs over the side of the bed.

"Where you goin'?" Sam asks, gaze sharp.

"Bathroom," Dean says, reaching for his cane.

"You need—"

"Sam," Dean snaps, more tired than angry. "No one – you don't have to – every time I –"

"Shut up," Sam says dismissively. "Yeah, I do. I need to. And not just for you, Dean, so quit – just quit it."

Dean pushes himself to his feet, doesn't really know how to answer that, but thinks, suddenly, of Missouri, her hand on his knee, his pain on her face. _It's a metaphor, honey. _He shivers a little.

When he gets back from the bathroom, Sam is opening another Pabst can, laptop open on the bed in front of him.

"I was thinking we could hole up somewhere warm," Sam says. "New Orleans?"

"Texas," Dean says. "Let's go to Texas. There are _armadillos _in Texas."

Sam grins. "We could think about Texas."

Dean gets himself adjusted on the bed, watches Sam take a sip of his beer.

He should be happy – fuck, he _is _happy, can't believe Sam's staying – but he still feels that cold clench of anxiety in his stomach, the feeling that everything's spiraling downwards.

"This really what you want?" Dean asks suddenly, can't help himself. "Shitty motel rooms, shitty pizza, dislocated shoulders?"

"No," Sam says, keeps his eyes on the laptop. "It's not what I want. But at this point, if it's a choice between this and any other fucking thing I could do, I'll take this."

"What about school?"

"I don't know," Sam says, takes a drink, swipes a hand across his mouth. "I'm gonna have to think about that when the time comes. But the time hasn't come. So. I'm not gonna think about it."

Dean knocks a cigarette from his pack, looks at it for a while before putting it in his mouth. "If you wanted to go back—"

"I said I don't know, Dean. Shit's changed."

Dean nods, because yeah, shit has changed. Keeps changing, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. Like a black hole.

They're silent for a few minutes, Sam drinking his beer, Dean smoking his cigarette, the hum of the laptop as it heats up, the click of the pipes somewhere in the walls.

"How's your shoulder?" Dean asks finally, for lack of something better to say.

"A hundred thousand times better than when you asked me five minutes ago, miraculously."

Dean cracks an unwilling grin. "Don't be a smartass. Now you know how I feel all the goddamn time."

"Well, then you should know better."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Yeah, shit keeps changing. But some shit will always stay the same.

And there's a measure of comfort in that, Dean realizes, even as Sam stands to get another beer, even as his father gets further away with every minute, with every mile, even though tonight Sam might have a nightmare that'll come true, for chrissake — some shit will always stay the same. And that's what Dean's gonna hold onto for dear life. That's what counts.

------------------------------------------------THE END-------------------------------------------

A/N: THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR READING! You guys are so incredibly gratifying to write for, I love it so. *sweeps you up and bear hugs you all 'til you collectively gasp for air*

I hope everyone has happy holidays, or whatever, I don't know what's PC and what's not these days, but I hope it's happy!

I'm gonna take a break for a while, will probably churn out a one-shot or two, but the next multi-chap won't be on the heels of this one like this was last time. But there will be more. Oh, so much more.

*liberally distributes booze and cigarettes"

*throws in some Vicodin*

*stops babbling now*


End file.
